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POEMS 



GRAVE AND GAY. 



GEORGE ARNOLD. 



m 







BOSTON: 

TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 

1867. 






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■*\* 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by 

TICKNOR AND FIELDS, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



34 £93 






University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 

Cambridge. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Introductory Note .7 

I. GRAVE. 

A Summer Longing 23 

Fire-Flies. 25 

A Sunset Fantasie 27 

Art and Nature . 30 

Psyche's Feet 38 

My Wind-Harp 39 

Sea-shore Fancies 40 

The Omen 42 

September Days 44 

Golden-Rod 46 

The Lily of the Nile 48 

October 49 

Summer and Autumn 52 

The Merry Christmas Time 54 



iv Contents, 

The Poet's Awakening 57 

Jacob's Ladder 58 

Deep Eyes 60 

Jam Satis 61 

Midnight Music 62 

Wine Song 64 

Lucidora 66 

On the Beach 68 

Laurel 70 

Alone by the Shore . 71 

I want not Love 73 

In the Organ-Loft 74 

The Broken Cavalier's Song 76 

In the Alcove 78 

An Autobiography . -79 

At the Circus 80 

Drinking Wine 83 

Song of the Sensuous 85 

Quand Meme 87 

Vanitas 95 

Tired 97 

At Newport 99 

Gloria 104 

Camp Cogitations 106 



Contents. v 

June 24, 1859 112 

June 24, 1864 114 

II. GAY. 

Don Leon's Bride 117 

The Big Oyster 127 

The Drinking of the Apple- Jack . . . .133 

Single and Double 138 

The Ballad of Fistiana 145 

The Modern Mithridates 150 

The Cruise of the Flora 153 

The Coroner's Juryman 158 

The Dangers of Broadway 161 

The Fourth of July in Town 164 

The Brown Stone What-is-it 167 

The Sharpshooter's Love I7 1 

The Song of the Stone-Hulk 173 

The New Nimrod *75 

Two Sensible Serenades 178 

"No More" 181 

Opening Day 184 

The Common Councilman 186 

Douglas's Serenade 189 

The Conservative's Lament 19 r 



vi Contents, 

Queer Weather 195 

Facilis Decensus Avenue 197 

The Song of the Home Guard 201 

A Voice from on Deck 204 

The Plaint of the Postage-Stamp .... 206 

The War- Poet's Lament 208 

Shoddy 211 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 



IN the biographical sketch of George Arnold 
that is prefixed to " Drift" I have recorded 
the principal events of his life, and have de- 
scribed his character as it was known to me. 
In that volume, also, I have presented many 
poems which illustrate the nobleness, the gen- 
tle simplicity, the tender human sentiment, the 
winning quaintness, and the half-cheerful, half-sad 
repose, that were blended in his character, and 
that made him so delightful and so dear to 
his numerous friends. While interpreting his 
nature, those poems likewise prove his genius. 
That genius, however, was manifested in vari- 
ous aspects, by other works ; and these — in 
pursuance of the solemn duty that has been 



8 Introductory Note. 

intrusted to my hands by the relatives of the 
departed poet — I am to place before the pub- 
lic. The present volume comprises a number 
of his poems that have been gathered since the 
compilation of "Drift," together with a portion 
of his humorous and satirical verse. There re- 
main to be reproduced his humorous Prose 
Writings, his Tales and Sketches, and those 
pieces of his comic verse for which he made 
drawings, and which would lose much of their 
significance if printed apart from the illustra- 
tions. Meanwhile, upon this volume and its 
predecessor rests George Arnold's title to an 
honorable fame among the poets of America. 

That such a fame awaits him I cannot doubt. 
To contemplate these poems with the eyes of 
affection is, perhaps, to see in them a deeper 
meaning and a higher value than they possess. 
Yet affection, though it be not critical, is clear- 
sighted. In this instance, anticipating the verdict 
of the impartial future, I believe that Arnold 
will be recognized as truly a poet, — as one, 



Introductory Note. 9 

that is, who knew and worshipped and could 
interpret the beautiful ; who understood, by po- 
etic intuition, the heart of man and the sanc- 
tity of Nature ; who felt, therefore, the deep, 
latent tragedy of human life, and heard the 
voice of God in rustling leaf and babbling 
brook and murmuring surges of ocean ; who 
widely sympathized with the aspirations of hu- 
manity, desiring that happiness might prevail 
as the fruit of justice; who uttered, in many 
admirable forms of art, the truth which he saw 
and felt, and the ideal for which he longed ; 
and who preserved, through care and sin and 
sorrow, a simple nature, a true heart, and per- 
fect faith in goodness and beauty. This is the 
testimony of his poems. They do not, indeed, 
strikingly evince that greatest of poetic faculties, 
imagination. They do not even evince a fixed 
and controlling intellectual purpose. Yet they 
reveal, with graphic clearness, one of those finely 
organized natures, — seldom sent on earth, but 
always sent to bless, — in which the fire that 



io Introductory Note. 

burns with such strange, erratic lustre is the di- 
vine fire of genius. 

It is generally futile to conjecture what a man 
would have been, and what he would have done, 
under other circumstances than those which ac- 
tually surrounded him. Yet I cannot but think 
— remembering how much greater Arnold was 
than the writings which he has left — that, un- 
der happier conditions, he would have wrought 
to better purpose and would have enriched the 
literature of his country with riper and more 
massive works. The critic will detect in his 
poetry the elements of fever, recklessness, and 
melancholy : but it is easy to explain their pres- 
ence. He lived, ripened, and died within the 
brief period of thirty-one years. His lot was 
cast amidst a civilization the enormous physical 
activity of which precludes repose, and is thus 
an enemy to genius and to art. Moreover, the 
best years of his life — which were the last — 
were those wild years of civil war that forbade 
poetic meditation. Then, too, his personal ex- 



Introductory Note. n 

perience had warped him from happiness. He 
began life with exultant enthusiasm. He believed 
in everything, — in love, in hope, in ambition, 
in pleasure, in the rewards of the world and in 
the promises of fame. Passion came to him, and 
sorrow in its train ; but, to his deep nature, a 
common grief broadened into a profound trag- 
edy. Too brilliant to brood, he plunged into 
pleasure. Then came a mood of philosophical 
apathy, in which he tired of love and sorrow and 
the whole strange pageant of human life. Four 
lines in this book, entitled "An Autobiography/' 
suggest this mood in a very forcible manner. 
Among the last words that he wrote, also, are 
these, which I copy from the manuscript of his 
last McArone letter: "To sit in the chimney- 
corner and smoke a pipe, looking tranquilly 
backward upon all the troubles and trials and 
tribulations, the losses, the disappointments, the 
doubtings and fearings that make up the bitter- 
ness of life, — to look back upon these as things 
of the past, matters of history, already uninterest- 



12 Introductory Note. 

ing to the present generation, is a boon I do 
mightily desire." In the sad sincerity of these 
words his temperament is clearly revealed, — a 
temperament that could not, and did not, favor 
elaborate efforts in literary art. He wrote con- 
tinually, however, and without artifice ; and, de- 
spite this inward apathy, he never lost the poet's 
devotion to Nature, nor the gentleman's humane 
sensibility, nor the practical thinker's capacity 
to cope with the affairs of every-day life. His 
sadness was for himself; his cheerfulness was 
for others. Those who met George Arnold saw 
a handsome, merry creature, whose blue eyes 
sparkled with mirth, whose voice was cheerful, 
whose manners were buoyant and winning, 
whose courtesy was free and gay. He had a 
smile and a kind word for every good fellow. 
He saw the best side of persons and of things. 
His large humanity was quick to find excuses 
for the errors and the faults of his comrades. 
He could throw himself with hearty zest into 
the pleasures of the passing hour ; and thus, 



Introductory Note. 13 

wherever he went, he attracted friends. Among 
men of letters his presence was sunshine. None 
could take keener delight than he did in 

" Genial table-talk, 
Or deep dispute and graceful jest." 

He mingled with many classes of persons, and 
he was a favorite with them all. Upon the minds 
of conventional people, indeed, I dare say that 
he often left an erroneous impression ; for he had 
a lively impatience of the commonplace in life and 
letters, and he was remarkably proficient in the 
art of " chaffing." It is not to be denied, either, 
that the moral discipline of his life was imperfect. 
He often yielded to sensuous impulse. Yet the 
basis of his nature was goodness, and the current 
of his life sparkled with graces as it flowed onward 
from light to darkness. 

Many pictures of him rise before me, as I think 
of pleasant hours passed in his society, in years 
that are forever gone, — of long rambles by day, 
and sad or merry talk by night, over pipe and bot- 
tle, in quiet lodgings wherein we dwelt together. 



14 Introductory Note. 

His affectionate sympathy, his quaint cynicism, his 
wit, and his humorous philosophy were, at such 
times, inexpressibly winning. He had read many 
books, — his favorite authors being Balzac and 
Byron, — but he had studied Man and Nature 
with deeper relish ; and hence his conversation 
was vital and various with the fruits of observa- 
tion rather than reading. But no personal rem- 
iniscence, no tender, regretful word, can now 
reanimate his silent face or rekindle his "spell 
o'er hearts." In the love of his friends he can 
live but for them alone. For others he must 
live in his works, if he live at all. 

■■■f~ " Thy leaf has perished in the green : 

And, while we breathe beneath the sun, 
The world, which credits what is done, 
Is cold to all that might have been." 

What, then, is done ? . . . The question is 
partly answered in these two volumes of poems. 
A few words relative to the details of Arnold's 
literary career may chance to answer it still fur- 
ther. 






Introductory Note, 15 

He was a writer from the first. While yet a 
boy he used to amuse himself by making little 
newspapers, writing the articles and printing them 
with his pen. Several years later he began to 
keep a poetical Diary, in that delicious Italian 
stanza which doubtless Byron's " Don Juan " had 
commended to his fancy. This Diary he kept for 
a long time, so that it filled a large volume ; but, 
ultimately, and no doubt wisely, he destroyed it. 
In letters to his friends, also, — which he used 
to ornament with illustrative drawings, — his liter- 
ary faculty found practice. How he drifted from 
Painting to Literature, in or about the year 1853, 
has already been noted. There were fewer peri- 
odicals published in New York then than there are 
now, and hence fewer opportunities were afforded 
to writers. Yet he was soon actively employed 
as the sub-editor of a story-paper ; and he was 
remarkably efficient and successful in this office. 
His taste, however, soon impelled him to decline 
editorial cares ; and from this time forward he sel- 
dom accepted duties that could restrict his per- 



1 6 Intro ditctory Note. 

sonal freedom. He could work in the most orderly 
manner, and with unflagging industry ; but he 
preferred to work whenever and wherever impulse 
directed him. In pursuing this policy he became 
a contributor to many publications. His writings, 
as far as collected, have been drawn from twenty- 
seven periodicals. He preserved printed copies 
of a part of them, but in general was careless of 
their fate. The collection of his stories numbers 
one hundred and ninety-four, and is still incom- 
plete. To trace all his essays, sketches, art- 
critiques, book-reviews, jokes, and paragraphs 
would be impossible, they are so numerous and 
so widely scattered. It is enough to say, that 
many a brilliant article that has anonymously 
gone the rounds of the press within the last ten 
years, delighting hundreds of readers, came from 
his pen, — carelessly sold, to supply the need of 
the moment, and then forgotten. In the promi- 
nent magazines of the country he is represented 
by only a few poems and stories. He was not 
fastidious in the sale of his writings. The nearest 



Introductory Note. 17 

purchaser satisfied him. A trifling incident will 
illustrate his carelessness in this particular. In 
1 86 1, when the outbreak of the civil war had 
caused a sudden stagnation in letters, he one day- 
showed me a short poem that he had just written, 
and laughingly said that he should like to sell it. 
I thereupon offered to sell it for him. He told me ^ 
to take it, and to accept the first offer that might 
be made for it. I sold the poem to a political 
newspaper for three dollars. He was delighted 
at this magnificent result, and immediately spent 
the money for a dinner, which we ate together, 
with great glee. He often gave his poems to 
editors who were his personal friends. He was 
not, however, a voluminous writer of serious verse. 
His comic poems are very numerous. At an early 
period of his literary career he began to write for 
the comic papers; and he continued to work in 
that vein till the end. Vanity Fair y which was 
started in New York in the autumn of 1859, by 
Mr. W. A. Stephens, gave him constant employ- 
ment. This paper was discontinued in the sum- 



1 8 Introductory Note. 

mer of 1863, and its record of contributors and 
contributions has since been partly destroyed ; 
so that a complete list of the articles that Arnold 
wrote for it cannot be obtained. But it is certain 
that he contributed several hundred articles, in 
prose and verse, many of which he illustrated with 
pen-and-ink sketches. For Mrs. Grundy — com- 
menced in New York by Mr. A. L. Carrol, in 
July, 1865, and discontinued after the publication 
of twelve numbers — he wrote twenty-nine arti- 
cles, and supplied many clever drawings. His 
best known efforts in comic writing are his 
McArone Letters, commenced in Vanity Fair, 
November 24, i860, and concluded in the New 
York Weekly Review, October 14, 1865. These 
letters include a comic novel, in ten chapters. 
He employed, also, among others, the pen-names 
of "Grahame Allen," " George Garrulous," " Pier- 
rot," and "The Undersigned." 

Other details might be given, but the record 
of his literary life is sufficiently complete. It was 
industrious ; it was successful ; it was brilliant : 



Introductory Note. 19 

future criticism must finally determine the value 
of its achievements. 

The humorous and satirical poems contained in 
this volume are mainly those which seem to me to 
possess a general rather than a merely local and 
ephemeral interest. Arnold wrote many clever 
verses in satire of passing events ; but, now that 
the events have passed and been forgotten, the 
verses would appear to be pointless, if reproduced. 

The present collection of serious poems in- 
cludes, as already intimated, several which I was 
not able to obtain, prior to the publication of 
" Drift," as also several which, at first, I hesitated 
to print. It is easy to publish ; it is hard to 
recall. 

The task which I Jiave thus far fulfilled has 
been a sad one, — since it has caused my thoughts 
to dwell intensely upon persons and scenes that 
have passed forever away. Six years ago there 
was a brilliant circle of young writers in New 
York, of which George Arnold was a dearly loved 
member. They were all my friends. A few of 



20 Introductory Note. 

them are yet alive; but the others have fallen 
asleep. Fitz-Jarnes O'Brien, Edward Wilkins, 
William Symonds, Henry Neill, Frank Wood, 
George Arnold, — the grass is growing upon all 
their graves. 

" Like clouds that sweep the mountain summit, 
Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
So fast has brother followed brother 
From sunlight to the sunless land." 

I lay aside this pen with a sentiment of lone- 
liness, — trusting, though, that, in an humble 
effort to do justice to one of these departed 
friends, it has not labored altogether in vain. 

WILLIAM WINTER. 
New York, August 25, 1866. 



I. 
GRAVE 



' 'T is also well this air is stirred 

By Nature's voices loud and low, 
By thunder and the chirping bird, 
And grasses whispering as they grow." 

Milnes. 



A SUMMER LONGING. 

T MUST away to wooded hills and vales, 

-*■ Where broad, slow streams flow cool and 

silently, 
And idle barges flap their listless sails. . . . 
For me the summer sunset glows and pales, 
And green fields wait for me. 

I long for shadowy forests, where the birds 

Twitter and chirp at noon from every tree. 
I long for blossomed leaves and lowing herds : 
And Nature's voices say, in mystic words, 
'The green fields wait for thee/ 

I dream of uplands, where the primrose shines, 
And waves her yellow lamps above the lea ; 
Of tangled copses, swung with trailing vines ; 
Of open vistas, skirted with tall pines, 
Where green fields wait for me. 



24 A Summer Longing. 

I think of long, sweet afternoons, when I 

May lie and listen to the distant sea, 
Or hear the breezes in the reeds that sigh, 
Or insect-voices chirping shrill and dry, 
In fields that wait for me. 

These dreams of summer come to bid me find 

The forest's shade, the wild bird's melody, 
While summer's rosy wreaths for me are twined, 
While summer's fragrance lingers on the wind, 
And green fields wait for me. 



FIRE-FLIES. 

fr I A IS June, and all the lowland swamps 
-*■ Are rich with tufted reeds and ferns, 
And filmy with the vaporous damps 

That rise when twilight's crimson burns ; 
And as the deepening dusk of night 
Steals purpling up from vale to height, 
The wanton fire-flies show their fitful light. 

Soft gleams on clover-beams they fling, 

And glimmer in each shadowy dell, 
Or downward with a sudden swing 

Fall, as of old a Pleiad fell ; 
And on the fields bright gems they strew 
And up and down the meadow go, 
And through the forest wander to and fro. 

They store no hive nor earthy cell, 
They sip no honey from the rose ; 



26 Fire-Flies. 

By day unseen, unknown they dwell, 

Nor aught of their rare gift disclose ; 
Yet, when the night upon the swamps, 
Calls out the murk and misty damps, 
They pierce the shadows with their shining lamps. 

Now ye, who in life's garish light, 

Unseen, unknown, walk to and fro, 
When death shall bring a dreamless night, 

May ye not find your lamps aglow ? 
God works, we know not why nor how, 
And, one day, lights, close hidden now, 
May blaze like gems upon an angel's brow. 



A SUNSET FANTASIE. 

T T 7 HEN the sun sets over the bay, 

* * And sweeping shadows solemnly lie 
On its mottled surface of azure and gray, 

And the night-winds sigh, — 
Come, O Leonore, brown-eyed one, 
To the cloudy realms of the setting sun ! 
Where crimson crag, and silvery steep, 
And amaranth rift, and purple deep, 
Look dimly soft, as the sunset pales, 
Like the shadowy cities of ancient tales. 

As Egypt's queen went floating along 

To her lover, when all the orient air 
Was laden with echoes of dreamy song, 
And the plash of oars, and perfumes rare, 
So will we float, 
In a golden boat, 



28 A Sunset Fantasie. 

On velvet cushions soft and wide ; 

I and my love, the onyx-eyed, 
Will watch the twilight radiance fail, — 

Cheek by cheek and side by side, — 
And our mingled breath, O Leonore, 
Shall fan the silken sail, 

To the shining line of that faery strand 

Where sky is water and cloud is land, — 
The wonderful sunset shore ! 

On those dim headlands, here and there, 
The lofty glacier-peaks between, 

Through the purple haze of the twilight air, 
The tremulous glow of a star is seen. 

There let us dwell, O Leonore, 

Free from the griefs that haunt us here, 
Knowing nor frown, nor sigh, nor tear : 

There let us bide forevermore, 

Happy for aye in the sunset sphere ! 

In the mountainous cloudland, far away, 
Behold, a glittering chasm gleams! 



A Sunset Fantasie. 29 

O, let us cross the heaving bay, 
To that land of love and dreams ! 

There would I lie, in a misty bower, 
Tasting the nectar of thy lip, 
Sweet as the honeyed dews that drip 

From the budding lotos-flower ! 
Dip the oar and spread the sail 
For shining peak and shadowy vale ! 

Fill, O sail, and plash, O oar, 

For the wonderful sunset shore ! 



ART AND NATURE. 

i. 

T N the dusk of summer even, when the roses 

■*■ slowly swayed 

To and fro, in gentle breezes that around the 
trellis played, 

And the rising moon wrought wonders of fan- 
tastic light and shade, 

I walked up and down with Florence, under- 
neath the linden-trees, 

Listening to the ocean murmurs, rising, falling, 
with the breeze . . . 

Murmurs faint but fraught with music, hints of 
dreams and prophecies. 

ii. 
Far below us, where the beetling cliff its dizzy 
depth sheered down, 



Art and Nature, 




31 


We could hear the song and laughter of 


the 


merry-making town, — 






That the murmurs of the ocean and 


the ^ 


wind 


were vain to drown ; 






And above the rocks there flaunted, 


now 


and 


then, a lurid light, 






As the harshly hissing rocket climbed 


along its 


fiery height, 






Piercing, with its savage splendor, 


the 


soft 


beauty of the night. 






in. 
Noise of drums and trumpets mingled 


with 


the 


cadence of the seas ; 






Bursts of wine-begotten laughter soiled the fresh- 


ness of the breeze ; 






And the heavy tramp of soldiers shook the 


lofty 


linden-trees. 






There, upon a rustic sofa, where the 


moon 


light 


whitely slept, 






And a rustic roof gave shelter from 


the 


dew 


that heaven, wept, 







32 Art and Nature. 

We sat down to break the silence that till then 
we both had kept. 

IV. 

Florence said : " How grates this feasting, this 

wild noise of blatant mirth, 
On the holy peace that hovers o'er the ocean 

and the earth ! 
Why should man's best sense of pleasure to 

such sights and sounds give birth ? 
Why not seek a calm expression for fulfilment 

of desire ? 
Must our triumphs and successes all be writ in 

words of fire, — 
Words that leave but bitter ashes when their 

fitful sparks expire ? 

v. 
v Thus it is with men . . . they trample on the 

dignity of man . . . 
With our purest joys have mingled, ever since 

the world began, 



Art and Nature. 33 

Brazen blasts, and blazing rockets, and the deaf- 
ening rataplan ! 

Yet the moon in silent grandeur rises from the 
flashing sea, 

And the stars burn on forever, and the winds 
blow ever free, 

Calm, yet joyous^ with an inner sense of holy 
ecstasy.' , 

VI. 

" Yes," I said, " 't is in our nature ; we are 

somehow coarsely made ; 
And we think that our emotions, to be real, 

must be displayed ; 
That our feelings must be measured by our 

folly and parade. 
Yet, perhaps, we err not greatly ; man needs 

symbols, and we find 
In this fire and smoke and clamor that seethe 

upward on the wind 
Some external type of triumph gained by sword 

or gained by mind. 



34 Art and Nature. 

VII. 

" Thus, the deepest-thinking student, when his 
daily task is done 

And his cloister is illumined by the last rays 
of the sun, 

Lays his ponderous ancient volumes in their 
alcove, one by one, 

And goes forth to seek companions in the cellar 
or the hall, 

Where the clinking of the goblets, and the dan- 
cing-leader's call, 

And the hum of pleasant music on his weary 
ear may fall." 



VIII. 

Florence took the word up quickly : " Ay, your 
parallel is true ; 

And that all you men thus trifle is the greater 
shame for you ! 

Are no deities more worthy than the mad Bac- 
chante crew? 



Art and Nature. 35 

O you men ! the wise and simple to the self- 
same tenets cling ; 

To the search for sensuous pleasures you your 
highest talents bring, 

And your peals of shallow laughter through the 
holiest chambers ring! 



IX. 

You . . . confess it, now ! . . are longing to be 
yonder, down below, 

Where through thick, black clouds of smoke de- 
moniac bonfires redly glow, 

Like the old, fiend-lighted beacons on the Brocken 
long ago ! 

You too love the brazen clamor, rattling drum, 
and trumpet's strain, 

And the gaudy rocket cutting this fair, moonlit 
sky in twain, 

More than grand old ocean's music and the 
calm of Hesper's reign ! " 



36 Art and Nature. 

x. 

"No/' I said, "you judge us harshly; wine and 
laughter are not ends, 

They are means to that enjoyment whereto 
every spirit tends; 

And 't is wise that man his labor with his pleas- 
ure sometimes blends. 

Would you have us all ascetics, scorning what 
our natures crave, 

Toiling on, and noting nothing of the outer 
fabric, save 

It might be a gilded sunset, or the moonlight 
on the wave ? " 



XI. 

As I spoke, a filmy vapor, edged with pearl and 

silver gray, 
Passed across the moon's broad circle, as it 

floated on its way, 
And a glittering path of diamonds far athwart 

the ocean lay : 



Art and Natitre. 37 

All the heavenly vault seemed opened where 

the moon in ether rode, 
And like Cleopatra's jewels on the dusk the 

planets glowed, 
While, below, the smoky bonfires made a vulgar 

palinode. 

XII. 

" There ! " said Florence, then outstretching her 
white hand toward the sea, 

" Dian thus asserts her greatness, — her fair right 
of royalty ; 

Keep you all your baleful beacons, — leave the 
moon and stars to me ! " 

Then she drew her robe about her, for the air 
was growing chill, 

And we homeward strolled together, by the path 
around the hill, 

Silently, and gazing seaward, where the moon- 
path glittered still. 



PSYCHE'S FEET. 

T T ER feet, they are so small, 
-^ ■*■ So delicate her tread, 
The daisies do not bend at all 
When she walks overhead ; 
But each looks up, and falls in love 
With Psyche's tiny feet above. 

She walks with such an art, 

And steps so daintily, 
If she should tread upon my heart, 

'T would still unbroken be ; 
Unless 't were by the loveliness 
Which Psyche's tiny feet possess ! 



MY WIND-HARP. 

\ T THAT faint, sad sounds are these, the air 
* * pervading ? 

Rising and falling with the winds that blow ; 
Now keenly clear, like elfish serenading, 
And now like angel-music, sweet and low. 

Is it the gentle breeze of summer, mourning 
Over its loved June roses' early death ? 

Or doth Azrael give a solemn warning 

To those he claims, with such melodious breath ? 

No : 't is my wind-harp, in the window lying . . . 

I love to hear it, while I string sad rhymes ; 
For its faint tones, like ghosts of dead songs, sigh- 
ing, 

Bring me quaint fancies of the olden times. 



SEA-SHORE FANCIES. 

f\ PLEASANT waters, rippling on the sand, 
^^ Green and pellucid as the beryl-stone, 
With crested breakers heaving toward the land, 

Chanting their ceaseless breezy monotone, 
What snowy little feet at girlish play 
Have ye not kissed on Newport's beach to-day ? 

O waves, that foam around yon lonely rock, 
Boding the distant storm with hoarser roar, 

Has not some ship, beneath the tempest's shock, 
Gone down, a piteous wreck, to rise no more ? 

Lost in the mighty billows' wash and sway, 

What gallant hearts have ye not stilled to-day ? 

O dancing breakers, fresh from other seas 

Whereon the lingering, loving sunshine smiles, 
Your spray is fragrance, on the fragrant breeze, 



Sea- Shore Fancies. 41 

Borne from the spice-groves of those palmy isles 
Where dusky maids make merriment alway, — 
Have ye not laved their perfect forms to-day ? 

O tossing billows, come ye from afar 
Where over ice-fields the aurora beams, 

Dimming the radiance of the northern star 

That through the lengthened night of winter 
gleams 

Upon the toppling icebergs, grim and gray, — 

Have ye not lashed their frozen sides to-day ? 

O sea of life, whose waters heave and roll, 

Ye lave sad wrecks and joyous youthful forms : 

Ye bring sweet fragrance to the weary soul, 
And chill it with the breath of icy storms : 

Here on the shore we smile and weep and pray, — 

O waves, cleanse all our sins from us to-day ! 



THE OMEN. 

A STORM is gathering in the seaward sky, 
The sunlit islands in its shadow die, 
And startled sea-gulls on the wind flap by. 

Yet, faint and far, a single sunset ray 
Slants o'er the waters many a mile away, 
Making yon sail a Pleiad gone astray. 

That ray is like one hope that lingers still 
Through fears that sicken and through doubts 

that chill — 
The victory of passion over will ! 

The black clouds thicken : well, so let it be : 
But while yon sunlit sail I still can see, 
I will believe that there is hope for me ! 



The Omen. 43 

The shadows spread along the horizon, 

... It faints ... it fades ; the sail is almost gone, 

And with it pales the hope just now that shone. 

'T is gone ! The waves upon the rocky shore 
Break heavily, with hoarse and hungry roar, 
And hope has vanished, to return no more ! 



SEPTEMBER DAYS. 

T N flickering light and shade the broad stream 
-^ goes, 

With cool, dark nooks and checkered, rippling 
shallows ; 
Through reedy fens its sluggish current flows, 

Where lilies grow and purple-blossomed mallows. 

The aster-blooms above its eddies shine, 

With pollened bees about them humming slowly, 

And in the meadow-lands the drowsy kine 

Make music with their sweet bells, tinkling 
lowly. 

The shrill cicala, on the hillside tree, 

Sounds to its mate a note of love or warning ; 

And turtle-doves re-echo, plaintively, 

From upland fields, a soft, melodious mourning. 



September Days. 45 

A golden haze conceals the horizon, 

A golden sunshine slants across the meadows ; 
The pride and prime of summer-time is gone, 

But beauty lingers in these autumn shadows. 

The wild-hawk's shadow fleets across the grass, 
Its softened gray the softened green outvying ; 

And fair scenes fairer grow while yet they pass, 
As breezes freshen when the day is dying. 

O sweet September ! thy first breezes bring 
The dry leaf's rustle and the squirrel's laughter, 

The cool, fresh air, whence health and vigor spring, 
And promise of exceeding joy hereafter. 



GOLDEN-ROD. 

T IKE the nodding crest of a golden helm, 
-^— ' When the autumn west-wind bloweth, 
Among the thickets of birch and elm 

On the steep hillside it groweth. 
There, when summer was young and fair, 
And wild-wood roses scented the air, 
I sat with hazel-eyed maiden Clare. . . . 
Alack ! who knoweth 
How love goeth ? 
The hazel-eyed one was fickle as gay ; 
The wild-wood roses have faded away ; 
And the golden-rod blooms on their graves to-day ! 

Well ; let a golden peace uprise 

On the grave where my passion lieth ! 

Let me forget the hazel eyes ! 
As the bee, that southward hieth, 



Golden-Rod. 47 

Forgetteth the wild-wood roses fair 
When the golden-rod shineth upon the air, 
So let me forget the maiden Clare ! 

Alack ! who knoweth 

How love goeth ? 
Why should I sigh for Clare alway ? 
Genevieve's eyes have a gentler sway ; 
And she smiled — ah, sweetly ! — on me to-day ! 



THE LILY OF THE NILE. 

"XT'OU know that great, white lily, — 

■*■ That stately cup of creamy snow, — 
That rears an alabaster lamp, 
With broad, green blades below ? 

Madge has, within her chamber, 

This scion of Nilotian race, 
To typify the purity 

That reigns about the place. 

One day, a bud, fresh opened, 

Shone out, a flower full-blown and fair, 
And Madge — it was a way of hers — 

Bent down and kissed it there. 

Her ripe, red lips touched softly 
Upon the cup of creamy snow, — 

O, would that I a lily were, 
That Madge might kiss me so ! 



OCTOBER. 

/^"^V'ER hill and field October's glories fade; 
^-^ O'er hill and field the blackbirds southward 

fly; 
The brown leaves rustle down the forest glade, 
Where naked branches make a fitful shade, 
And the last blooms of autumn withered lie. 

The berries on the hedgerow ripen well, 

Holly and cedar, burning bush and brier ; 
The partridge drums in some half-hidden dell, 
Where all the ground is gemmed with leaves that 
fell, 
Last storm, from the tall maple's crown of fire. 

The chirp of crickets and the hum of bees 

Come faintly up from marsh and meadow land, 
Where reeds and rushes whisper in the breeze, 

4 



50 October. 

And sunbeams slant between the moss-grown 
trees, 
Green on the grass and golden on the sand. 

From many a tree whose tangled boughs are bare 
Lean the rich clusters of the clambering vine ; 
October's mellow hazes dim the air 
Upon the uplands, and the valley where 
The distant steeples of the village shine. 

Adown the brook the dead leaves whirling go ; 

Above the brook the scarlet sumacs burn ; 
The lonely heron sounds his note of woe 
In gloomy forest-swamps where rankly grow 

The crimson cardinal and feathery fern. 

Autumn is sad : a cold, blue horizon 

Darkly encircles checkered fields and farms, 
Where late the gold of ripening harvests shone : 
But bearded grain and fragrant hay are gone, 
And autumn moans the loss of summer's 
charms. 



October. 5 1 

Yet, though our summers change and pass away, 
Though dies the beauty of the hill and plain, 
Though warmth and color fade with every day, 
Our hearts shall change not, for hope seems to say 
That all our dearest joys shall come again. 

And if the flowers we nurture with such care 

Must wither, though bedewed with many tears, 
They shall arise in some diviner air, 
To bloom again, more fragrant and more fair, 
And gladden us through all the coming years. 

The sun sinks slowly toward the far-off west ; 

The breeze is freshening from the far-off shore ; 
So come, fair eve, and bring to every breast 
That sense of tranquil joy, of gentle rest, 

We knew in happy autumns gone before ! 



SUMMER AND AUTUMN. 

f~^ ORGEOUS leaves are whirling down, 
^* Homeward comes the scented hay, 
O'er the stubble, sear and brown, 
Flaunt the autumn flowers gay : 
Ah, alas ! 
Summers pass, — 
Like our joys, they pass away ! 



Fanned by many a balmy breeze, 

In the spring I loved to lie 
'Neath the newly budded trees, 
Gazing upward to the sky : 
But, alas ! 
Time will pass, 
And the flowers of spring must die ! 



Summer and Autumn. 53 

Oft my maiden sat with me, 

Listening to the thrush's tone, 
Warbled forth from every tree 
Ere the meadow hay was mown : 
But, alas ! 
Summers pass, — 
Now, I wander all alone ! 



Love, like summer-time, is fair, 

Decked with buds and blossoms gay ; 
But upon this autumn air 

Floats a voice, which seems to say 
" Loves, alas ! 
Also pass, 
As the summers pass away ! " 



THE MERRY CHRISTMAS TIME. 

/"^ REEN were the meadows with last summers 
^* store ; 

The maples rustled with a wealth of leaves ; 
The brook went babbling to the pebbly shore, 
Down by the old mill, with its cobwebbed door, 

And swallow-haunted eaves ; 
And all the air was warm and calm and clear, 
As if cold winter never could come near. 

Now, the wide meadow-lands where then we 
strolled 
Are misty with a waste of whirling snow : 
The ruined maples, stripped of autumn's gold, 
Sigh mournfully and shiver in the cold, 
As the hoarse north-winds blow. 
Yet something makes this frosty season dear,... 
The Merry Merry Christmas time is here. 



The Merry Christmas Time. 55 

The Merry Christmas, with its generous boards, 
Its fire-lit hearths, and gifts, and blazing trees, 
Its pleasant voices uttering gentle words, 
Its genial mirth, attuned to sweet accords, 

Its holy memories ! 
The fairest season of the passing year, . . . 
The. Merry Merry Christmas time is here. 

The sumacs by the brook have lost their red ; 

The mill-wheel in the ice stands dumb and still ; 
The leaves have fallen and the birds have fled ; 
The flowers we loved in summer all are dead, 

And wintry winds blow chill. 
Yet something makes this dreariness less drear, . . . 
The Merry Merry Christmas time is here. 

Since last the panes were hoar with Christmas 
frost 
Unto our lives some changes have been given ; — 
Some of our barks have labored, tempest-tossed, 
Some of us, too, have loved, and some have lost, 
Some found their rest in heaven. 



56 The Merry Christmas Time, 

So, humanly, we mingle smile and tear, 
When Merry Christmas time is drawing near. 

Then pile the fagots higher on the hearth, 

And fill the cup of joy, though eyes be dim. 
We hail the day that gave our Saviour birth, 
And pray His spirit may descend on earth, 

That we may follow Him. 
'T is this that makes the Christmas time so dear : 
Christ, in His love for us, seems drawing near. 






THE POET'S AWAKENING. 

| ONG had he been a thing of common clay, 
*-^ A being of earthly mould ; 
But, lo ! an angel crossed his path, one day, 
And turned the clay to gold. 

Silent was he : the angel came again, 

And, as she passed along, 
She kissed his lips all lovingly, and then 

He opened them in song. 



JACOB'S LADDER. 

IT was a prophet slept ; 
And in his dream vast mysteries were 

seen, — 
A vapory cloud, that seemed to lower and lift, 
Pierced in its centre by a glittering rift, 
With splendid glimpses of the heaven between; — 
And still the prophet slept. 

A ladder from the earth 
Far-slanting touched the opening of the cloud. 
Thereon the prophet saw fair figures go, 
With stately steps, serenely to and fro, — 
Fair angels, filmy-winged and tranquil-browed, 
Between the heaven and earth. 

O prophet's dream of heaven ! 
Do I unfold your mystery aright ? 



Jacob's Ladder. 59 

Was not that ladder typical of love, 
That leads us to our glorious home above, 
And, thronged with angels, tranquil-browed and 
bright, 
Makes earth seem near to heaven ? 



DEEP EYES. 

'HT^HOSE eyes ! . . . those eyes ! . . . 

-*- O maiden, turn those eyes away! 
My best ambition faints and dies 

Beneath their gentle sway. 
I list not fame's loud trumpet-call, 

But idly sit and linger still, 
A slave within the pleasant thrall 

Of those deep eyes and thy sweet will. 

Those eyes ! . . . those eyes ! . . . 

While haunted by their lustrous gleam, 
I care not to be great or wise, 

And life seems like a dream. 
The golden hours unnoted fly, 

From idle night to idle day : 
My books and pen neglected lie — 

O maiden, turn those eyes away ! 



JAM SATIS. 

TVT OT much for sordid, golden dross I care, 
-*- ^ I wish not much of worldly wealth to hold. 
Seek her I love : look on her shining hair, — 
Is it not wealth of gold ? 

I am not envious of the diamond's flash ; 

Its wondrous brilliance dazzleth not my sight ; 
For her sweet eyes, beneath their fringed lash, 
Make dim the diamond's light. 

I care no more for music's dreamy swell ; 
Nor flute nor viol greatly pleaseth me ; 
Her speech is. softer than a silver bell, 
Her laugh is melody. 

I leave the wine which once I loved to sip : 

Why should I drain the crimson beaker dry, 
When there is subtle nectar on her lip 
That I may drink — and die ? 



MIDNIGHT MUSIC. 

\ T 7 HEN the sun has passed away, 
* * When the night has crown'ed the day, 
And the planet's trembling radiance 
Rules above with gentle sway ; 

Through the sighing poplar-trees 
Floats a cadence on the breeze, — 
Up into the moonlit heaven, 
Out across the moonlit seas. 

In the grand old garden, near, 
Manly voices, singing clear, 
Mingled with the quivering viol, 
Pierce the midnight atmosphere. 

O, 't is sweet, when day has flown, 
By the casement, all alone, 



Midnight Music. 63 

Thus to sit, and drink, like nectar, 
Midnight musics regal tone ! 

Lady, whosoe'er thou art, 
Seest thou him who stands apart ? 
None could sing thus save a lover, 
And his song should win thy heart ! 



A 



WINE SONG. 

S I pour the wine, 
I behold its sparkles bright 
Tis the light 
Beaming, lady mine, 
In those eyes of thine, — 
Beaming deeply bright. 

As I pour the wine, 
I behold its rosy flush: — " 

'T is the blush 
Mantling, lady mine, 
That fair face of thine, — 

Rosy-tinted blush. 

As I pour the wine, 
Its fragrance I descry : — 
'T is the sigh 



Wine Song. 65 

Coming, lady mine, g 

From that mouth of thine, — 
Love's half-stifled sigh. 

As I drink the wine, 
Thrills my heart with sudden bliss : — 

Like the kiss 

That proclaims thee mine 

Is there aught divine 

Save a lover's kiss ? 



LUCIDORA. 

/'"VER a moorland strange and lonely 
^^ Leans an ancient trysting-tree ; 
There I sit and ponder only 

On the days long past for me. 
Lucidora ! . . . Lucidora ! 

Sweet and sad are dreams of thee ! 

Here we met in summer's blooming, 
Happy in those days were we ; 

But the winter snows, entombing 
All our joys, have fallen on me. 

Lucidora ! . . . Lucidora ! 
Few are loved as I loved thee ! 

Thou wert fair, . . . none else were fairer. . . 

Stars that light a tropic sea 
Have no radiant lustre rarer 



Lucidora. 6y 

Than the light thou gavest to me 

Lucidora ! . . . Lucidora ! 
Naught on earth was like to thee ! 

Those dear days are gone forever, 
Vacant must my poor heart be ; 

For lost joys, returning never, 
Leave this world a void to me. 

Lucidora ! . . . Lucidora ! 
I can only weep for thee ! 



ON THE BEACH. 


r 1 ^HE wind is wild on the sea to-night, 
-*• The surf is roaring loud ; 


The sand-flats gleam with spectres white, — 


Spectres of mist in a misty shroud, — 


And 0, 't is a fearful night ! 


Alone on the shore I wander wide ; 


The wind flings back my hair ; 


The Past's dim ghosts about me ride 


In shadowy troops on the murky air, 


And over the sea-beach wide. 


The light gleams forth from the fisher's cot 


And shimmers along the shore : 


The fisher heeds the tempest not, — 


He takes no note of the ocean's roar, 


As he sits in his peaceful cot. 



On the Beach. 69 

Ah, deep in the waves of yonder sea, 

My loved one lies at rest. 
A cold, white hand is beckoning me 

To find repose on that cold, white breast, 
Lying beneath the sea. 



LAUREL. 

O TWINE no garland for my brows, 
Of laurel buds and blossoms fair ; 
But let the leaves hang on their boughs, — 
For them I do not care. 

'T is true the leaf is smooth and fine, 
And groweth with a goodly grace ; 

But hero's wreaths, on brows like mine, 
Were sadly out of place ! 

I care not for such vanity ; 

I care not to prolong my name ; 
Since she whose love is life to me 

Can never share my fame. 

Then twine no hero's wreath, good friends ; 

For earthly fame hath naught to bless 
The singer whose ambition ends 

With sweet forgetfulness. 



ALONE BY THE SHORE. 

| WALK by the shore, by the shore, — 
-*- I walk by the shore of the sounding sea, 
And hear in its loud and thunderous roar 
A voice calling out on me. 

I sit on the sand, on the sand, 

The foam and the froth go swirling by ; 

The wind whispers gently over the land, 
And seems like a human sigh ; — 

A sigh for a friend, for a friend, — 
A calm and a true and a noble soul, 

Whose friendship and faith might nevermore end, 
As long as these breakers roll. 

Far out in the west, in the west, 

The sun through his robe of vapor gleams ; 



7 2 Alone by the Shore. 

And so, like a king, right royally dressed, 
Goes down to the land of dreams. 

I look on my life, on my life, 
A selfish battle it seems to me ; 

I long for rest from its terrible strife, 
Far down in the deep, deep sea. 

I walk by the shore, by the shore, 

And still as I gaze on the fading west, 

I list to the voice with its thunderous roar, ■ 
" O come, for the dead find rest ! " 



I WANT NOT LOVE. 

] WANT not love, but who will be my friend ? 
-*■ I feel the need of some kind soul, to strew 
My way with blossoms, as I wander slow 

Down toward the valley where all paths must end 

Can I not find a friend ? 

I want not love, — I only want a friend. 

Love's joys are rapture, but its pains are death ; 

And joys and pains to love are food and 
breath ; 
So, when these weary arms I would extend, 
Let them enfold a friend ! 

I want not love, — ah no ! I want a friend ! 

Why should a broken heart be tortured still ? 

Have I not had of misery my fill ? . . . 
But thou who readest what I here have penned, — 
Wilt thou not be my friend ? 



IN THE ORGAN-LOFT. 

r I ^HE dead in their ancient graves are still ; 

■*• There they Ve slept for many a year ; 
The last faint sunbeams glance o'er the hill, 

Gilding the dry grass, tall and sear, 
And the foam of the babbling rill. 

Into the church the ruddy light falls, 

Through rich stained windows, narrow and high ; 

Pictures it paints on the old, gray walls, 

Scenes from the days that have long gone by, — 

And hark ! — 't is my Rosalie calls ! 

She calls my name, — I have heard it oft 

Just at the golden sun's decline : 
I answer the call, so sweet and soft; 

And, turning, see where her bright eyes shine, 
High up in the organ-loft. 



In the Organ-Loft. 75 

I pass the winding and narrow stair ; 

The gallery door stands open wide ; 
I know no shadow of pain nor care, 

While darling Rosalie stands by my side, 
In the sunset light so fair. 

What grand old hymns and chants we sang, — 
Grand old chants that I loved so well ; 

And the organ's tones, — how they pealed and rang, 
Piercing the heart, no tongue can tell, 

With what a delicious pang ! 

O those hours ! what holy light 

Hovers around when their memories rise ! 
Music, love, and the sunset bright, 

Tenderest glances from Rosalie's eyes, 
And a long, sweet kiss, for good-night ! 



THE BROKEN CAVALIER'S SONG. 

[" ' Well,' said Don Sebastian, ' our Spanish wine is sweet, if life is bitter ! ' 
And, taking up the mandoline, with a kind of sad gayety, he began to sing." — 
Don Sebastian de Cerveuas.] 

r I ^HE jolly old world goes rolling round, — 

-*- Drink wine, brothers mine ! 
The dead lie sleeping under ground, — 

Drink wine ! 't is this we 're drinking 
Kills all care and stops all thinking. 

Drink wine, beverage fine ! 
See through the goblets the rosy light shine : 
Happiness lies in a flagon of wine ! 

The maiden I loved was fair to see, — 

Drink wine, brothers mine ! 
But long ago she jilted me, — 

Drink wine ! let glasses clinking 
Kill our cares and drown our thinking ! 

Drink wine, beverage fine, 



The Broken Cavalier s Song. JJ 

No maidens eyes can rival its shine ! 
Happiness lies in a flagon of wine ! 

I trusted a friend whom I thought true, — 

Drink wine, brothers mine ! 
He played me false and robbed me too, — 

Drink wine ! 't is this we 're drinking 
Keeps our spirits up from sinking ! 

Drink wine, beverage fine ! 
Friendship nor love were e'er half so divine ; 
Happiness lies in a flagon of wine ! 

My houses and lands, both park and moor, — 

Drink wine, brothers mine ! 
Have passed away and left me poor, — 

Drink wine ! 't is this we 're drinking 
Kills all care and stops all thinking ! 

Drink wine, beverage fine ! 
Brighter than gold is its glimmering shine : 
Happiness lies in a flagon of wine ! 



IN THE ALCOVE. 

ROUND and round the waltzers twirled ; . 
Through the hall the music rang, — 
Viol's hum and cymbal's clang, — 
Is not this a pleasant world ? 

But Lady Clare passed by me, 

And her lip was curved with scorn ; 

I sat me down in an alcove, 
And wished I never was born. 

Up and down the glittering room 

Went each dame and cavalier, 
In the triple atmosphere 

Of light, and music, and perfume. 

But Lady Clare walked by me, 

And tossed her delicate head ; 
So there I sat in the alcove, 

Wishing that I were dead. 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 



WAS born some time ago, but I know not 



■*• why : 



I have lived, — I hardly know either how or 

where : 
Some time or another, I suppose, I shall die ; 
But where, how, or when, I neither know nor 

care ! 



AT THE CIRCUS. 



A CROSS the stage, with its blaze of lights, 
-*■*• From fly to fly in the heated air 
A slack rope hung, and in spangled tights 
Sat " Signor " somebody swinging there. 



Now he swung by a single arm ; 

Now by a single leg swung he ; 
A fall had done him a grievous harm, . 

He balanced and turned so recklessly. 

I watched awhile. " It is well," I said, 
" If people want reckless feats, it is well. 

The tickets are bought, the money is paid, 
And 'twere more of a show if he but fell." 

I turned away : he was swinging yet : 

And I glanced on the crowded house around, — 



At the Circus. 81 

Boxes, circle, and wide parquette 

Breathlessly watching, without a sound. 

In a graceful pose, on a cushioned seat, 
I saw Her sitting, to gaze at the man. 

You could almost have heard my poor heart beat, 
With the riotous blood that through it ran. 

There she sat, with her splendid eyes 

Fixed on the fellow so earnestly, 
With more of the interest I should prize 

Than ever she gave in a glance to me. 

Every time that he balanced and turned, — 
O, but her eyes grew large and shone, 

Her bosom heaved and her fair cheek burned : 
To me she had been like a block of stone. 

This poor, pitiful circus man, 

Swinging each night for his daily bread, 
Had moved her mote, since his act began, 

Than I could, stretched* on my dying-bed. 
6 



82 At the Circus. 

Hollow, hollow, and false as hell ! 

Love is a cheat, and life is a wreck ! 
What cared I if he swung or fell ? 

What cared I if he broke his neck ? 



DRINKING WINE. 

" Plus sitiunt plus bibunt." 

T)OUR the mingled cream and amber! 
-*- Let me drain the bowl again ! 
Such hilarious visions clamber 

Through the chambers of my brain. 
Quaintest jests and queerest fancies 

Spring to life and fade away : 
What care I how time advances ? 

I am drinking wine to-day. 

Here's a motto terse and sentient, 

By it I will live and die ! 
Words of some rare tippling ancient, 

" Ever drunken, ever dry." 
Fill again ! let bubbles blind me ! 

Sorrow, hide thy face away ! 



84 Drinking Wine. 

Satan, get thee hence behind me, — 
I am drinking wine to-day. 

Cease thy prate of worldly glory, 

Cease thy prate of worldly gold ! 
I have heard that pleasant story 

Till it sounds a little old. 
Let me drop such low ambitions ; 

Glory gnaws the heart away ; 
Gold demands too stern conditions, — 

I am drinking wine to-day. 

One more bowl — a goodly measure - 

Ere my merry mood be gone ! 
Wine 's a feast of perfect pleasure, — 

Feast without a skeleton. 
Love is false, and hope is waning ; 

Life a failure is alway ! 
Wine's the only good remaining, — 

Let me drain its lees to-day. 



SONG OF THE SENSUOUS. 

BRING me grapes, whose regal juice 
All my pent-up soul shall loose ! 
Bring me snow-crowned amber goblets, 
Overflown with liquid mirth ! 
Let the night consume the day ; 
Suns and moons pass swift away ; 
Let my life fade into pleasure ; 
I am earthy, — of the earth ! 

Let me choose myself a bride, 

Snowy-bosomed, dreamy-eyed ; 
Let our love to new expressions 

Every fleeting hour give birth ! 

Locked in passion's close caress, 

Let us find forgetfulness ! 
What care I for aspirations ? 

I am earthy, — of the earth ! 



86 Song of the Sensuous. 

Ye who list fame's trumpet-call, 

Waste your lives and pleasures all ; 
When your eyes in death are glazing, 

What are future glories worth ? 

Give me woman, wine, and sleep ! 

They who are in earnest weep : 
Let me love and drink forever! 

I am earthy, — of the earth ! 



T 



QUAND MEME. 



^WILIGHT is red in the west, and just where 
the sun went down 
Gleams a splendid halo, like that of a pictured 
saint ; 
The shadows of night fall fast, and purple the 
moorlands brown, 
While every passing moment the light in the 
sky grows faint. 
There are long dark lines of cloud that stretch 
themselves in the west, 
And tell of a bitter cold to come with the com- 
ing day, 
And ever upon the wind there wails a voice of 
unrest, 
Wailing and soughing, sad and low, for the sum- 
mer-time passed away. 



88 Quand Meme. 

ii. 
Glorious Summer ! the pride, the queen of the 
• livelong year ; 
When insects chirp in the grass, and birds are 
carolling sweet ; 
When the moors are gay with flowers, and the 
skies are diamond-clear, 
And the honeyed clover-blossoms breathe fra- 
grance under our feet ! 
Here, on this selfsame moor, in a spirit of glad 
content, 
Humming, perchance, to myself, some fragment 
of musical rhyme, 
Loitering, wandering idly, all careless whither I 
went, — 
Ah ! how oft have I walked, when the Summer 
was in her prime ! 



in. 

Well, I am walking now on the moorland, just 
as then, 



Quand Meme. 89 

But something has changed. Is it I ? or is it the 
whole wide world ? 
Does anything ever change, outside of the hearts 
of men, 
Drifted about by their passions, and hither and 
thither whirled ? 
I hum no snatches of rhyme, and a leaden weight 
of pain 
Burdens my gloomy spirit, and fevers my rest- 
less mind, 
And I wander listless and slow, wantonly swinging 
my cane, 
Beating off the golden-rod tufts that rustle dry 
in the wind. 

IV. 

And still there rises before me, wherever I turn 
my gaze, 
The figure of her that I loved, when the summer 
was blossoming fair ; 

A beautiful, haunting ghost, the love of my sun- 
nier days, 



go * Quand Mime. 

With her splendid, shadowy eyes, and her tor- 
. rent of gleaming hair. 
Lovely, loving, and loved ! I remember every 
caress, 
Every word of endearment, and every gesture 
and tone ; 
Even her light, quick footstep, the rustling of her 
dress, 
Come to waken the olden thought as I walk on 
the moor alone ! 

v. 

Well, thank God ! it is over, and naught ljut the 

ghost abides ; 
I have cast her forth forever, and sealed the 

gates of my heart ! 
My pulse beats calmly now, as the flowing of 

ocean tides ; 
And I know that love is but madness, and 

wisdom the better part : 
For just as a woman is fair, so is she false 

alway ; 



Quand Meme. 91 

She is vain, and the flatterer wins where the 
earnest man is scoffed ; 
Give her but praise and folly, be idle, flippant, and 

And just in a due proportion, as your head — so 
her heart — is soft ! 

VI. 

O, how I scorn myself, that I should be juggled 
and fooled, 
Vowing and promising love to an idle-minded 
girl ; 
Degrading my very manhood, to find, when my 
blood had cooled, 
That she had lent me a tawdry cheat, where I 
had given a pearl ! 
She, — how well she could smile, while her heart 
was a lump of ice ; 
Kiss me, and sharpen a dagger to deal me a 
deadly blow ; 
Weave garlands of fairest blossoms, to deck me, a 
sacrifice ; 



92 Quand Meme. 

And call me her deareSt friend, while she was 
my dearest foe ! 



VII. 

High in the heavens above stretch threatening 
hands of cloud, 
And a muttered malediction is whispered now 
on the breeze ; 
Thus do I stretch my hands, and curse the fickle 
and proud ; 
Thus do I curse from my inmost heart all lovely 
liars like these ! 
T is the brand of the eldest mother ; the cause of 
the fall of man ; 
We are weak and foolish, and eat of any fruit 
she may give ; 
And so I curse them all, who still, since the world 
began, 
Have smilingly poisoned our hearts until we are 
loath to live ! 





Quand Mime. 93 

VIII. 

O, may the wrath of Heaven — But hold, — I 
am rash, just now: 
Would I really wring her soul, and bring her to 
sharp despair ? 
Wrinkle, with heavy sorrow, that beautiful, tranquil 
brow, 
And mingle silvery threads in the shining gold 
of her hair ? 
No : I would rather choose that she might repent 
her wrong, 
With a softened sadness, born of this she has 
brought to me ; 
The woman, after all, is not so sturdy and strong 
As we, and we should forgive, if we would for- 
given be. 

IX. 

Then, perchance, in the light that repentance 
sometimes shows, 
She could see this cross I bear, and pity my 
weary lot, 



94 Quand Mime. 

Till, in a gentler moment, touched deep by these 
cruel woes, 
Her heart — it was always kind — might yield 
once more ; why not ? 
Ah, could it only be ! What joy would I not give 
up,. 
To know that my form again in its olden shrine 
were set ! 
That again the wine of life could flash in the 
jewelled cup — 
O heart of mine ! what is this ? More than 
ever I love her yet ! 



VANITAS. 

A H, Love is very well, 
•* ■*• In its way ; 

But the knell 
Seems a sadder tale to tell 
Than the merry marriage bell, 

Of its sway ! 

And Fame is good, likewise, 
If you choose 
To close your eyes 

Till the heart's best feeling dies ; 

And to seek a higher prize 
You refuse ! 

And Wine is fair to see, — 
Fair and sweet 
As can be ; 



96 Vanitas. 

But the joys it brings to me 
Are like to misery 
And deceit ! 

Not Love, nor Fame, nor Wine 

Satisfy ; 

All are fine, 
But a shadow dims their shine : 
So, since naught of joy is mine, 

Let me die ! 



TIRED. 

2 OVE ? yes, it used to be good, in its way, 
-■— ' When my blood was warm, and my heart 

was light ; 
But women, like men, are only clay, . . . 
They are not angelic, quite ! 

Fame ? no, I hardly fancy fame ; 

The poet must suffer as well as sing ; 
I have little taste for a " deathless name," 

" Glory," and that sort of thing ! 

Wine ? I am even tired of wine ; 

It is not so sweet as it used to be ; 
Once its aromas seemed divine, 

But now they are vapid to me ! 

I remember, though, when I prized them all, . . . 
When love, and fame, and wine had power 
7 



98 Tired. 

To bind me fast, in a mighty thrall, 
That lasted . . . may be an hour ! 

But love was only an honest cheat ; 

Fame cost more than it ever could give ; 
Wine was bitter as well as sweet : 

With them it was death to live ! 

So now I have settled me down to rest, — 
Perfect rest is my joy supreme. 

Of all things earthly sleep is the best, . . . 
But I cannot bear to dream ! 



AT NEWPORT. 

[unfinished.] 

j WALKED on Newport's frowning rocks one 

^ day, 

Watching the breakers' feathery lines of spray 
Dash sternly up against the boulders there, 
^il^fall away in nothingness and air, — 
Just as we mortals, hopeful and elate, 
Dash ourselves into nothing, against fate : 
And — as we mourn to find our efforts lost — 
The fretted surf, in frothy turmoil tossed, 
Made melancholy moan, and seemed to tell 
How brightly hope arose, how soon it fell. 

Thus musing, I, in philosophic mood, 
Was led upon man's littleness to brood, 
And marvelled if he ever gains the prize 
Which seems most worthy to his longing eyes. . . . 



ioo At Newport. 

We toil for wealth, till, prematurely old, 
We lose all taste for joys that come of gold. 
We labor hard for fame, and find at last 
That glory comes not till the grave is past ; 
We sigh for leisure, but to learn, too late, 
That heavy ennui is its wedded mate. 

" It is the world," I said, " has gone astray ; 
My star has risen on a thankless day. 
Not now, as once, where swords are girded on, 
Can victors triumph when the field is won. 
The shout of conquering armies must arise 
Only when death has glazed the hero's eyes, 
And the good news of victory smite his ear 
Only, alas ! when he has ceased to hear. 
Bravest of all, he dies and never knows 
Whether his friends have triumphed, or his foes. 

"I will have none of this. I will forswear 
The world, its feverish hope, its feverish care. 
The student's toil is vacant of reward 
As his who carves a future with his sword. 



At Newport. 101 

Let those who may find joy in dusty books, 
Stagnate in alcoves, dessicate in nooks 
Where dust and bigotry hold rival reigns, 
And scholars fill their heads with dead men's 

brains ! 
I will not waste my life from youth to age 
To leave my name upon a title-page. 

"And so in all things Fate is most unjust. 
Beauty itself is made of common dust. 
The cynic's sneer was hardly less than true, — 
Love is, indeed, but ' selfishness for two.' 
Where Venus once with Hymen held her court, 
Young men are bartered and young maids are 

bought, 
Unholy lips breathe forth unholy vows ; 
And fading blossoms droop on faded brows. 
So, till some purer life than this I see, 
No nuptial garland shall be twined for me. 

" I will not mingle with my fellow-men, 
To be deceived and to deceive again. 



102 At Newport 

Call me ascetic, cynic, what you will, 
I shall be calm and philosophic still, 
And, all unheeding what the world may say, 
Will not bow down to idols made of clay. 
I care not for the verdict of the crowd. 
Shame cannot crush, nor honor make me proud, 
The while in perfect peace I dwell apart, 
True to myself and tranquil in my heart. 

" What matters honor and what matters shame ? 
A hundred years — and all will be the same. 
Hence with the earthy idol and its throne, — 
And let me walk forgotten and alone, 
Where dancing mist and flying foam arise, 
And distant seas commune with distant skies ; 
Where slanting drives the white-winged ocean bird, 
And naught save thunderous breakers can be heard, 
Or solemn sounds of gusty winds that roar 
Down the gray stretches of a ghostly shore." . . . 

Thus, with the billows' murmur in my ear, 
I was not conscious of a footstep near, 



At Newport. 103 

And, self-communing in my solitude, 

Saw not a figure that before me stood — 

Until a girl-voice, sweet as silver bells, 

Rang out, " O come, and help me gather shells !"-... 

In dire retreat my gloomy fancies fled ; 

The train of thought was lost : I raised my 

head, — 
And met a Fate against whose rosy chain 
Philosophers philosophize in vain. 

There, sharply drawn against a pearly sky, 
I saw a face half merry and half shy, 
With shadowy eyes and mouth of perfect mould, 
And hair of softest brown inmixed with gold, 
A slender figure, full of gentle grace, 
Matched the rare beauty of the girlish face : 
And to my eye the apparition seemed 
Something an artist lover might have dreamed, 
After a day of earnest strife with art, 
To reproduce the darling of his heart. 



GLORIA. 

[in time of war.] 

r I ^HE laurels shine in the morning sun, 

.-*■ The tall grass shakes its glittering spears, 
And the webs the spiders last night spun 
Are threaded with pearly tears. 

At peace with the world and all therein, 
I walk in the fields this summer morn : 

What should I know of sorrow or sin, 
Among the laurels and corn ? 

But, hark ! through the corn a murmur comes — 
Tis growing — 'tis swelling — it rises high — 

The thunder of guns and the roll of drums, 
And an army marching by. 

Away with the sloth of peace and ease ! 
'T is a nations voice that seems to call. 



Gloria, 105 

Who cares for aught, in times like these, 
Save to win — or else to fall ! 

Farewell, O shining laurels, now ! 

I go with the army marching by : 
Your leaves, should I win, may deck my brow, 

Or my bier, if I should die. 



CAMP COGITATIONS. 

[in time of war.] 

I. 

r I ^HE moon is riding, full, behind the black 
-*- and naked trees, 

Like a redly blazing beacon on the horizon it 
gleams; 

And the swaying cedar branches sigh more 
sadly in the breeze ; 

And a hoarser voice is calling from the angry 
mountain streams ; 

In the dusk the snowy tents of my companions 
fade away : 

Rocky crags loom high above me, purple shad- 
ows round me fall, 

And I hear the clang of weapons, and the hun- 
gry chargers' neigh, 

And the measured tramp of columns, and the 
evening bugle-call. 



Camp Cogitations. 107 

11. 

Eighteen centuries have fleeted since upon the 
earth there came 

One who taught the creed of kindness, of for- 
giveness, and of peace, 

One who bade us love our neighbor in the 
Heavenly Father's name : 

Yet the god of battle riots, and his temples still 
increase. 

For the ancient evil lingers ; man has war 
within his soul, 

So he loves the clash and carnage, and the wild, 
triumphal shout : 

Right and wrong against each other strive with- 
in him for control ; — 

Ah, the ancient evil lingers, and he fain must 
fight it out. 



in. 
I, who dwell in scenes of warfare, may I not 
be something dulled 



108 Camp Cogitations. 

To the finer shades of justice, to the nicer sense 

of right ? 
I, who only do my thinking when the battle's 

storm has lulled, 
And there comes a time of quiet, as upon this 

wintry night. 
Can we, do we, settle questions, who is right 

and who is wrong, 
By the shock of rushing squadrons and the leaden 

hail and rain ? 
Is there really then a judgment in the wild, 

unearthly song 
Of the rifled-cannon bullet as it hurtles o'er 

the slain ? 

IV. 

Ah, the finest-drawn philosophy must fall before 

the truth ; 
And the truth is plain and simple, as we own 

with one accord ; 
When the foe is at our thresholds hoary age 

and callow youth, 



Camp Cogitations, 109 

Leaving argument and reason, trust sublimely 
to the sword ; 

And the student and the thinker, when the bat- 
tle is at hand, 

When the monster glares before them, seek to 
bandy words no more ; 

But a splendid fury rises, overwhelming all the 
land, * 

And a nation's voice is lifted in the symphony 
of war ! 

v. 

So the thinkers who determine all the ways of 
Deity, — 

All His wondrous means of working out the 
wisely hidden end, — 

The philosophers who think to make us think 
that they can see 

How the plans of God are laid, and whither- 
ward His labors tend, — 

These may sigh, and say the present is no bet- 
ter than the past, 



no Camp Cogitations. 

These may call us savage creatures, who appeal 

to shot and shell ; 
But the truth remains triumphant, and our armies 

gather fast, 
And who meets his death in battle be assured 

he meets it well. 

VI. 

Man must be the thing he is ; he must express 

himself in deeds ; 
So this outward war expresses only that which 

wars within. 
Do you, planting crimson roses, look for lilies 

from their seeds ? 
No ! a nation without war must be a nation 

without sin. 
If the hilt is in the hand, 't is surely there the 

hilt belongs ; 
Man and man are aye in conflict ; call it war 

or what you will : 
All the world is full of lies, — of old and thickly 

crusted wrongs, — 



Camp Cogitations. 1 1 1 

And when blood is boiling hotly, there is always 
blood to spill. 

VII. 

See, the moon has risen high above the black 
and naked trees, 

Like a shield of burnished silver on the sky of 
night it gleams ; 

Comes the sighing of the cedars ever sadly on 
the breeze ; 

Comes the sound of falling waters from the 
troubled mountain streams. 

Sternly frown the crags above me ; darker shad- 
ows round me fall, 

And the fires of the encampment flash and 
smoulder fitfully. . . . 

If the foeman break our slumber, ere the morn- 
ing bugle-call, 

Is the victors goodly laurel, or the cypress 
wreath for me ? 



JUNE 24, 1859. 

T SEE the surf on Sandy Hook ; 
■*■ I see the bay below me spread ; 
And here I lie, with pipe and book, 
And the blue sky overhead. 

A quarter of a century 

Has passed, and still I live to say 
(Ah, little joy it gives to me !) 

" I 'm twenty-five to-day." 

It is not very long to live ; 

At twenty-five we 're scarcely men ; 
And yet, a trifle I would give 

If 't were threescore and ten. 

A dozen threads among my hair 

Have changed from chestnut-brown to snow ; 



June 24, 1859. 113 

But if they paled from weight of care 
It had been long ago. 

About my eyes and on my brow 
A few faint wrinkles I can trace ; 

Time sets his signet even now 
Upon my form and face. 

And yet I look both young and fresh ; 

I am not worn, nor pale, nor thin ; 
Care's scars are slight upon the flesh, 

But deep on that within. 

Ah yes ! as seasons onward roll 

My outward form seems still to thrive ; 

But, looking back, I fear my soul 
Is more than twenty-five. 



JUNE 24, 1864. 

T 'M thirty : 't is not very old : 
■*■ Yet never younger shall I be ; 
Nor do I care my youth to hold : 
'Tis not so very dear to me. 

True, I have lived my share of life, 
And found me many goodly friends ; 

But, with all this, enough of strife, 
And toil, and loss, to make amends. 

And all my joys have wedded been 
With bitter griefs : alas ! the bell 

That rings to-day the marriage in, 
To-morrow tolls the funeral knell. 

Yet, though my brightest hopes have paled, 
My faith in future good holds fast ; 

My strength and courage have not failed, 
And all shall finish well at last! 



II. 
GAY 



c I do enjoy this bounteous, beauteous earth, 
And dote upon a jest." 

Hood. 

"He was full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips are o'er." 

Tennyson. 



DON LEON'S BRIDE. 



A TALE OF THE CARNIVAL. 



IP WAS — let 's see — ever so long ago, 

-*■ There lived in Madrid, as you must know, 

A gay cavalier 

Who ne'er 

Knew a fear 
Of the doughtiest kind of a masculine foe ; 

And who loved the ladies 

Of Seville and Cadiz 
As well as he did 
Those of Madrid, — 
Indeed, I wont swear that he did n't hanker, 
At times, for the girls of Salamanca. 

Yet still, in spite of his love and care 

For the sparkling eyes and the raven hair, 



n8 Don Leoiis Bride. 

He had n't the luck 
(Or, it may be, the pluck, 
Though 'twas hardly worth daring what he 
did n't dare), — 
In short, his affections he never had carried — 

In having what young women call "an affair" — 
So far as to think much about getting married. 
He drank and he fought 
Far more than he ought ; 
And the records say 
That, by night or day, 
He cut up such shines, and in such a way, 
That the daily papers, 
Describing his capers, 
Declared him the gayest of all the gay. 
So much for my hero ; I 'm thinking, though, 
That you might like to know 
His name ; 
And that same 
I '11 tell you at once ; 
Twas Sefior Don Leon de Bayaldefonse. 



Don Leoris Bride. 119 

11. 
'T is carnival-time, 
And many a chime 
From silvery, clear-toned chapel-bells, 
Is falling in sweet, melodious swells 

On the air of the soft Castilian clime. 
The stars are bright 
In the sky of night, 

And the moon is pouring her holy light 
On grove, and garden, and plain, and steep. 
The wind, as it blows, 
Sings love to the rose, 
And kisses the orange-blooms to sleep. 
There 's life in the town, 
For, up and down, 
A hurrying, countless, jovial throng 
Is surging along, 

And the gentle pulses of music beat 
In time to the tread of the dancers' feet ; 
The colored lamps swing to and fro, 
Casting a myriad-tinted glow 
On the masked and motley crowd below, 



120 Don Leoiis Bride. 

Like the varied hues of the bow of hope, 
Or those of a mammoth kaleidoscope. 

in. 
Don Leon is there, 
With vivacious air, 

Costumed and masked with scrupulous care, — 
Dancing and singing, 
Love-glances flinging, 
Stealing sly kisses 
From indiscreet misses, 
Whispering to them in a corner alone, 
Guessing their names without telling his own, 
Showering praises 
On them and their graces, 
Lifting their masks from their beautiful faces, 
And playing such pranks, 
With all classes and ranks, 
That every one sees, as plain as can be, 
Who knows Sefior Leon, that this must be he ! . . , 
At length my gay hero a lady espies, 
So carefully veiled as to hide e'en her eyes ; 



Don Leoris Bride, 12 1 

But her voice is so sweet, — 

Such music complete, — 

Her dress is so rich, yet so tasteful and neat, — 
So bewitching he finds her, in air and demeanor, 
He 's almost in love, ere he hardly has seen her! 

IV. 

He speaks to this lady, and lec.\ds her aside, — 
He earnestly begs her not to hide 
Her beauties rare, 
With such jealous care : 

" For," says he, " I know that you must be fair!" 
" Good sir," she answers, " my fate has said 
That I must never, till I am wed, 
Remove this mask ; 
So do not ask, 
But let us dance as we are, instead.'' 
Her voice was low 
As the winds that blow. 
O'er the hills where Aragon's roses grow, 
And the songs that heavenly angels sing 
No sweeter, purer, or clearer ring. 



122 Don Leoris Bride. 

Don Leon turned him half away, — 

He heard that voice, and naught could he say, 
Although he 'd have given 
His hopes of heaven 
To have seen her face for a moment, even ; 

But to save all Spain 

From sorrow and pain, 

He could n't have asked her once again. 
As the music arose 
He drew her close, 

And off they danced, on the tips of their toes, 
With many a fling, 
And many a swing, 

Whirling, twirling, shifting, swaying, 

Numberless pretty things softly saying, 
Darting along 
Through the mazy throng, 

Till poor Don Leon felt that he 

Was falling a victim to mystery, 
And that it was true as heaven above 
That he was heels-over-head in love ! 



Don Leons Bride, 123 



The waltz was done, 

With its frolic and fun, 

And the Don to plead his suit begun. 
Again he led the lady aside, 
To a lonely part of the courtyard wide, 

And begged she would 

Be kind and good 

Enough, to take the veil from her hood ; 
But no, — she would n't, — 
She said she could n't ; 
" Why not ! " asked he ; 
" Because," said she, 
" You 'd certainly be 
Scared half to death with what you would see." 

" I 'm not afraid," 

Don Leon said, 

And his hand on the veil he gently laid : 
" Back ! back ! " she cried, 
Quite terrified, 
" My face I must forever hide, 



124 Don Leon's Bride, 

Until I am wedded, — a lawful bride ! " 
•Alas for the Don, — 
His heart was gone ! 
'T was a solemn step to decide upon, — 

A serious joke, 

If the truth were spoke, 

And very like " buying a pig in a poke " ! 

But he 'd vowed to know, by hook or by crook, 
How the face of the charming one might look, 
So her hand he took, 
And swore by the book 

That, if she was willing his heart to delight, 

They would go and be married, that blessed 
night ! 
" Ah me ! " cried the lady, "at last I have found 
A man with true-hearted courage crowned ! " 
And she fell in his arms with a joyful bound. 

Then off they went, 

On a wedding bent, 

As swift as a bolt from a cross-bow sent, 
Or (to be more modern), as swift as the bolt 
That 's sent from the pistols of Colonel Colt, — 



Don Leoris Bride, 125 

And Father Ignacio Iago Malony 

Soon showed 

Them the road 
To matrimony. 

VI. 

Now for the awful mystery ! 
The Don was almost dying to see 

The face of his wife, 

Yet a dreadful strife 
Arose in his breast. 
And it must be confessed 
That he felt — well, terribly nervous, at best ! 
In a room, in the old baronial hall 
That the Bayaldefonses, one and all, 
Had owned since the time of Adam's fall, 
Stood the Don and his bride, 
Side by side, 
Their hearts overflowing with love and pride. 

" Come, bare thy head," 

The bridegroom said ; 
" Fair lady mine, 



126 Don Leoris Bride. 

Let the light divine 

Beam forth from those beautiful eyes of thine ! 
O, let me sip 
The dew of thy lip, 
Or kiss the blush from thy peachy cheek ! 
O, haste, sweet wife, nor longer seek 

To keep thy glorious charms concealed, — 
Take off thy veil, — let them be revealed ! " 
She dropped the veil, — 
The Don turned pale, — 
His joy — his pleasure — his hope — was gone, — 
He had lost, before he had fairly won : 
O gentle reader, pity the Don, — 
What do you suppose he looked upon ? . . . 
Only a Skeleton ! 



THE BIG OYSTER. 

A LEGEND OF RARITAN BAY. 

' r I A WAS a hazy, mazy, lazy day, 

-*- And the good smack Emily idly lay 
Off Staten Island, in Raritan Bay, 

With her canvas loosely flapping. 
The sunshine slept on the briny deep, 
Nor wave nor zephyr could vigils keep, 
The oystermen lay on the deck asleep, 

And even the cap'n was napping. 

The smack went drifting down the tide — 
The waters gurgling along her side — 
Down where the bay grows vast and wide- 

A beautiful sheet of water ; 
With scarce a ripple about her prow, 
The oyster-smack floated, silent and slow, 



128 The Big Oyster. 

With Keyport far on her starboard bow, 
And South Amboy on her quarter. 

But, all at once, a grating sound 

Made the cap'n awake and glance around ; 

" Hold hard ! " cried he, " we ve run aground, 

As sure as all tarnation ! " 
The men jumped up, and grumbled, and swore ; 
They also looked, and plainly saw 
That the Emily lay two miles from shore, 

At the smallest calculation. 

Then, gazing over the side, to see 

What kind of bottom this shoal might be, 

They saw, in the shadow that lay to the lee, 

A sight that filled them with horror ! 
The water was clear, and beneath it, there, 
An oyster lay in its slimy lair, 
So big, that to tell its dimensions fair 

Would take from now till to-morrow. 

And this it was made the grating sound ; 
On this the Emily ran aground ; 



The Big Oyster. 129 

And this was the shoal the cap'n found — 

Alack ! the more is the pity. 
For straight an idea entered his head: 
He 'd drag it out of its watery bed, 
And give it a resting-place, instead, 

In some saloon in the city. 

So, with crow, and lever, and gaff, and sling, 
And tongs, and tackle, and roller, and ring, 
They made a mighty effort to bring 

This hermit out of his cloister. 
They labored earnestly, day and night, 
Working by torch and lantern light, 
Till they had to acknowledge that, do what they 
might 

They never could budge the oyster ! 

The cap'n fretted, and fumed, and fussed — 
He swore he 'd " have that 'yster, or bust ! " 
But, for all his oaths, he was quite nonplussed ; 

So, by way of variation, 
He sat him quietly down, for a while, 
9 



130 The Big Oyster. 

To cool his anger and settle his bile, 
And to give himself up, in his usual style, 
To a season of meditation. 



Now, the cap'n was quite a wonderful man ; 
He could do almost anything any man can, 
And a good deal more, when he once began 

To act from a clear deduction. 
But his wonderful power — his greatest pride — 
The feat that shadowed all else beside — 
The talent on which he most relied — 

Was his awful power of suction ! 

At suction he never had known defeat ! 
The stoutest suckers had given in, beat, 
When he sucked up a quart of apple-jack, neat, 

By touching his lips to the measure ! 
He'd suck an oyster out of its shell, 
Suck shrimps or lobsters equally well ; 
Suck cider, till inward the barrel-heads fell — 

And seemed to find it a pleasure ! 



The Big Oyster. 131 

Well, after thinking a day or two, 
This doughty sucker imagined he knew 
About the best thing he could possibly do, 

To secure the bivalvular hermit. 
" I '11 bore through his shell, as they bore for coal, 
With an auger fixed on the end of a pole, 
And then, through a tube, I '11 suck him out, 
whole — 

A neat little swallow, I term it ! " 

The very next day, he returned to the place 
Where his failure had thrown him into disgrace ; 
And there, with a ghastly grin on his face, 

Began his submarine boring. 
He worked a week, for the shell was tough, 
But reached the interior soon enough 
For the oyster, who found such surgery rough — 

Such grating, and scraping, and scoring ! 

The shell-fish started, the water flew, 

The cap'n turned decidedly blue, 

But thrust his auger still further through, 



132 The Big Oyster. 

To quiet the wounded creature. 
Alas ! I fear that my tale grows sad, 
The oyster naturally felt quite bad, 
And ended by getting excessively mad, 

In spite of its peaceful nature. 

It arose, and, turning itself on edge, 

Exposed a ponderous shelly wedge, 

All covered with slime, and seaweed, and sedge — 

A conchological wonder ! 
This wedge flew open, as quick as a flash, 
Into two great jaws, with a mighty splash ; 
One scraunching, crunching, crackling crash — 

And the smack was gone to thunder ! 



THE DRINKING OF THE APPLE-JACK. 

[NOT BY BRYANT.] 

COME, let us drink the apple-jack ! 
Cut the tough lemon with the blade ; 
Hot let the water then be made ; 
There gently pour the liquor ; there 
Sift the white sugar in with care, 

And mix them all as gingerly 
As poets mingle rhythmic feet 
To print in some aesthetic sheet : 
So mix we the apple-jack. 

What drink we in the apple-jack ? 
Buds, which the sprees of nights and days 
Shall swell to blossoms all ablaze ; 
Spots, where the rash, a crimson guest, 
Shall put our good looks to the test. 



134 The Drinkijig of the Applejack. 

We drink, from the distillery, 
A balm for each ill-omened hour, 
A pleasant alcoholic shower, 

When we drink the apple-jack. 



What drink we in the apple-jack? 
Sweets, from that Jersey farm, of Spring's, 
That load the wagons, carts, and things, 
When from the orchard-row he pours 
His fruit to the distillery doors ; 

And toddy-blossoms, red that be. 
Drinks for the sick man's silent room, 
For the bon vivant rosy bloom, 

We brew, with the apple-jack. 

What drink we in the apple-jack ? 
Heads that shall swell in sunny June, 
To ache like fun in the August noon, 
And droop as sober folks come by 
Under the blue September sky ; 
And fellows, wild with noisy glee, 



The Drinking of the Apple-jack, 135 

Shall breathe strong fragrance as they pass, 
And tumble on the tufted grass — 
The effect of the apple-jack. 

And when above this apple-jack 
The silver spoons are quivering bright, 
And songs go howling through the night, 
We, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, 
Shall quaff our punch by cottage-hearth, 

And guests in prouder homes shall see, 
Beside the red blood of the grape, 
A bottle of a different shape — 

The bottle of the apple-jack. 

The glory of this apple-jack 
Winds and our flag of stripe and star 
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, 
Where men shall drink till all is blue 
The apple-jack of Sandy new ; 

And they who roam upon the sea 
Shall mourn the past but happy day 



136 The Drinking of the Applejack. 

When grog made labor seem like play, 
The day of the apple-jack. 

Each year shall give this apple-jack 
A mellower taste, a warmer bloom, 
A potency 'gainst mopes and gloom, 
And make it, when the frost-clouds lower, 
A thing for punch of wondrous power. 

The years shall come and pass, but we 
Shall grow no better where we lie, 
While summer's songs and autumn's sigh 

Shall ripen the apple-jack. 

And time shall waste this apple-jack ! 
O, when its aged barrels grow 
Light, as the rare old juice runs low, 
Shall fraud and force and iron will 
Oppress us with a Maine-law bill ? 

What shall the tasks of merGy be, 
Amid the todless toper's tears, 
If this should come, when length of years 

Is wasting this apple-jack ? 



The Drinking of the Apple-J^ack. 137 

" Who barreled this old apple-jack ? " 

The bibbers of that distant day 

Thus to some aged Sport shall say ; 

And, fingering his goblet's stem, 

The gray-haired sage shall answer them : 

"A poet of Jersey fame was he, 
Born in the heavy drinking times ; 
'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes 

On drinking the apple-jack ! " 



SINGLE AND DOUBLE. 



A CHRISTMAS JINGLE. 



T AST Christmas, I remember, 
-*-^ / I sat beside the hearth, 
And watched each glowing ember 

To tiny flames give birth, 
While the snow-flakes of December 

Were whitening the earthy 

Rapt close in meditation, 
And all that sort of thing, 

The idle brain's creation 
And vague imagining, 

I had a visitation 

Perhaps worth mentioning. 



Single and Double, 139 

My pipe its clouds emitted 

In wreaths of azure hue, 
Through which strange visions flitted, 

As they are wont to do 
When one is sombre-witted 

And feels a little blue. 

Strange vision ! girls with faces 

Of loveliest blush and smile, 
Whose forms wore all the graces 

That strengthen woman's wile, 
When clothed in silks and laces 

Cut in the latest style. 

Then rare, melodious noises, — 

Some seraphic trombone, — 
Came mingling with sweet voices 

Blent in a tender tone, 
Saying, — "When all the Earth rejoices, 

Why shouldst thou be here alone ?" 

I felt that I was weary 
Upon that Christmas day ; 



140 Single and Double. 

That I alone was dreary- 
While others all were gay 

With Christmas feasting cheery,— 
So I had n't much to say. 

And again they put the query, 
Why I should lonely be 

While other folks were merry, 
And said they could n't see 

Why I should be so very 
Fond of my misanthropy. 

While thus these figures fluttered 
My lonely hearthstone o'er, 

And still these voices uttered 
Their question as before, 

I, half unconscious, muttered 
" I '11 be alone no more ! " 

" Away with melancholy ! 

I '11 seek me out a bride, 
And when the berried holly 

Glows red at Christmas-tide, 



Single and Double. 141 

I '11 know of no such folly 
As a lonely fireside ! " 

Then fled the fairy vision! 

Their object was attained ; 
They had fulfilled their mission, 

Their ultimatum gained : 
They fled, but my decision 

Quite palpably remained. 



II. 

Again the Christmas season 
Rolls round as seasons roll ; 

The feast is more than reason, 
The flow is more than soul, 

And tyrant Care, by treason, 
Is drowned in many a bowl. 

Within my pleasant chamber 
I sit and muse once more, 



142 Single and Double. 

While from the hearth each ember 
Gleams red across the floor 

And snow-flakes of December 
Lie white on hill and shore. 

Again I sit, but never 

As once I used to sit, 
By phantoms haunted ever — 

Vague forms that fade and flit, 
Enough to make a clever 

Fellow have a stupid fit. 

Ah no ! my resolution 

Has straightly been put through, 
And another institution 

Has crept my life into. 
I have declared for " Fusion," 

And my ally has proved true ! 

My Ally, — that 's my Alice . . . 

A vision far more dear 
Than those that rose in malice, 

From the pungent Latakia 



Single and Double. 143 

That burned within the chalice 
Of my meerschaum pipe, last year. 

No more in lonely musing 
I hear the slow hours chime ; 

No more my lot abusing 
In sentimental rhyme ; 

No more I 'm caught refusing 
To have a jolly time! 

But, free from blues and bother, 

Quite cosily at ease, 
I sit by Baby's mother 

With Baby on my knees, 
And look from one to t' other 

As proudly as you please ! 

So you, who do as I did 

On Christmas-days gone by, 
Ere She and I decided 

Our forces to ally, 
If lonely you Ve abided, 

This other method try ! 



144 Single and Double, 

Old bachelors grow spiteful, 
As I erst-while have known. 

Heart-loneliness is frightful, 
And in the Book \ is shown 

That it is n't good or rightful 
For man to be alone. 

I hear my Alice singing 

As the Christmas snow-flakes fall, 
And the Christmas-bells are ringing 

From every belfry tall, 
This Christmas burthen bringing, 

" God bless us, one and all ! " 



THE BALLAD OF FISTIANA. 




(AFTER TENNYSON.) 


M 


Y form is wasted with my woe, 
Fistiana. 


There 


is no fame for me below, 




Fistiana. 


My fame has gone, like melted snow, 


Thoug 


h I can hit a heavy blow, 




Fistiana. 


Alone 


I wander to and fro, 




Fistiana. 


Once, 


my fame was widely growing, 




Fistiana ; 


Day and night my friends were crowing, 




Fistiana ; 


I was 


blowing, wine was flowing, 




10 



146 The Ballad of Fistiana, 

When I was to battle going, 

Fistiana. 
But, alas ! \ was naught but blowing^ 

Fistiana. 

In the ring, till almost night, 

Fistiana, 
I stood proudly up in fight, 

Fistiana. 
Although the blood bedimmed my sight, 
With stars that glimmered swift and bright, 

Fistiana, 
And left my eyes in shocking plight, 

Fistiana. 

The umpire stood against the wall, 

Fistiana ; 
He watched my fist among them all, 

Fistiana ; 
He saw me fight ; I heard him call : 
My foeman was both strong and tall, 

Fistiana : 



The Ballad of Fistiana, 147 


He pressed 


me close against the wall, 




Fistiana. 


My heavy 


counter went aside, 




Fistiana, — 


The false, false counter went aside, 




Fistiana, — 


The cursed 


counter glanced aside ; 


I missed his nob : my blow was wide, 




Fistiana, — 


My blow was very wild and wide, 




Fistiana ! 


0, narrow, 


narrow was the space, 




Fistiana ! 


Loud rang my backers' heavy bass, 




Fistiana. 


O, deathful 


blows were dealt apace, 


The battle 


deepened in its place, 




Fistiana ; 


But I went 


; down upon my face, 




Fistiana. 







148 The Ballad of Fistiana. 

They should have sponged me where I lay, 

Fistiana ; 
How could I rise and come away, 

Fistiana ? 
How should I look, the second day ? 
They might have left me where I lay, 

Fistiana : 
Bruised, mauled, and pounded into clay, 

Fistiana. 

O feeble nose ! why didst thou break, 
Fistiana ? 

me ! so pale and limp and weak, 

Fistiana : 

1 took my drink, but could not speak, 
With such a jaw and lip and cheek, 

Fistiana, 
Where fists had played at hide-and-seek, 
Fistiana. 

They cried aloud ; I heard their cries, 
Fistiana : 



The Ballad of Fistiana. 149 

Their plaudits rent the very skies, 

Fistiana ; 
I felt the tears and blood arise 
Up from my heart into my eyes, 

Fistiana. 
Who says there 's fun in fighting, lies, 

Fistiana. 

cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! 

Fistiana ! 
Unhappy me, by it laid low, 

Fistiana ! 
All night my " claret " seemed to flow ; 

1 sat alone, in utter woe, 

Fistiana : 
To fight again I '11 never go, 
Fistiana. 



THE MODERN MITHRIDATES. 

T T O ! bring my breakfast ! give to me 
*■ -■■ Bread that is snowy and light of weight, — 
Of alum and bone-dust let it be, 

Chalk, and ammonia's carbonate : 
Sulphates of zinc and copper too, 

Plaster of Paris, finely ground, 
Will make it evenly white, clear through, 

With the outside nicely browned. 






Give me butter to eat with the bread, — 

Colored with saffron and turmeric, 
Or orpiment, richer in tint 't is said ; 

Let lard and sheep's brains make it thick. 
Give me tea of a clear green hue, 

Made of soapstone, and willow-leaves, 
Arsenite of copper and Prussian blue, — 

Their flavor the palate deceives. 



The Modern Mithridates. 151 

Bring sugar, and sweeten the potion well, — 

Sugar of lead, and iron, and sand, 
Sweet as honey of Hydromel, 

Or the pressure of Mithridates' hand ! 
Though maybe coffee would clear my head 

Better than such a cup of tea, — 
Coffee of ochre, Venetian red, 

And the potent chicory. 

Then, with my chop, let pickles green 

Cool my tongue with flavorous bliss ; 
Steeped and soaked, they must have been, 

In salts of copper and verdigris : 
Most inviting to me they are 

When full of the pungent taste I find 
In sulphuric acid vinegar, — 

A condiment just to my mind. 

Ha ! you start ! you think that I, 

Being a man of mortal clay, 
After my meal will surely die, 

For these are deadly poisons, you say : 



152 The Modern Mithridates. 

Poisons ? yes ! yet one and all 

Are found on every grocers shelves ; 

Our bills of mortality are not small, 
But how can we help ourselves ? 



THE CRUISE OF THE FLORA. 



A NAUTICAL BALLAD. 



I AST week I went to Barnegat, 
*—^ All on a shooting spree ; 
And I will take and eat my hat 
If 't was not jollity. 

The piping winds across the sky 
Full many a cloud did blow, 

The while we piped, my friends and I, 
A jollier cloud below. 

Though Barnegat boasts no great man 
Who paints, or speaks, or writes, 

Whoever threads her channel can 
Descry some shining Lights. 



154 The Cruise of the Flora. 

And there we lay three days, I ween, 
Nor moved with sails or oars ; 

The only game that we had seen 
Was euchre, or all-fours. 

But when the sun, one morning, shone, 

Dispelling cold and cough, 
Good gracious ! how we all went on, 

And how our guns went off! 

The ducks and geese came flying round, 
And though they were no fools, 

A number fell upon the ground, 
'Twas said, between two stools. 

In Manahawkin Swamp, we heard, 

That one, with gun or snare 
Might capture bear ; but some averred 

The swamp was bare of bear. 

So hunting bear we did not go, 
Our sport was quantum suff; 



The Cruise of the Flora, 155 

And several tore their trousers so, 
They had bare-skin enough. 

We sailed 'twixt island-shores of grass : 

The channel there is shoal : 
And as we bowled along the pass, 

We passed along the bowl. 

A wreck on shore outlived the gale 

But sailors none were here, 
So when they wanted to make sale 

They got an auctioneer. 

(These 'long-shore sales, as I suspect, 

Are humbug and a curse. 
The ships by breakers may be wrecked 

But brokers are far worse.) 

For Tuckerton our sails we set, 
Some stores and things to buy ; 

And though we all got very wet, 
We all felt very dry. 



156 The Cruise of the Flora. 

And if you want to take us down . . . 

Our looks, and what we wore . . . 
The people of that little town 

Can tell you something more. 

Our week was up ; we headed toward 

Egg Harbor's bar of foam ; 
We were not free to go abroad, 

So we were bound for home. 

At Little Egg . . . the pass, you know . . . 

The wind was blowing free ; 
We doubted if 't was safe to go, 

But we went out to sea. 

'T was growing cold, and dark, and late, 
We saw nor moon nor star ; 

Our skipper steered for one thing straight, ■ 
The buoy behind the bar. 

All night our northward course we lay, 
Till off the first Hook light, 



The Cruise of the Flora. 157 

Where, as we hankered for the day, 
We anchored for the night. 

Next morn we rose betimes, and saw 

The billows wash and comb, 
While we went dirty as before, 

Until we reached our home. 

Thus closed our trip to Barnegat, 

'T was finished up. and done ; 
And I will take and eat my hat 

If 't was n't jolly fun. 



THE CORONER'S JURYMAN. 

T KNOW many things that are stupid, — 
•*■ A donkey, a new-landed foreigner, 
A young fellow bothered by Cupid, 

And — the Juryman called by a Coroner ! 

This last is the worst, to my thinking; 

For, though he looks stately and dignified, . 
While solemnly, owlishly blinking, 

He forgets what the evidence signified. 

He learns there has been a " Disaster " ; 

Views the scene with much nausea and dizziness ; 
But whether the man or the master 

Is to blame — why, 't is none of his business. 

He measures the ground with much caution, 
Gets all topographical distances, 



The Coroners Juryman. 159 

Talks wisely of traction and torsion, 
Of motors, concussions, resistances. 

And sometimes he goes to much trouble, 

With copious wind and verbosity, 
To show if the track had been double, 

'T would n't lessen the rate of velocity ! 

So, having considered the matter, 

And deduced all the facts from the premises, 
He decides, after viewing the latter, 

It is Destiny, — otherwise, Nemesis. 

An accident 's quickly forgotten ; 

A juryman's mercy's delectable; 
If the rails and the ties are all rotten, 

The Directors are very respectable. 

Some blame may be thrown on a stoker, 
If friendless, or killed, or non-resident ; 

But your Juryman — artful old joker! — 
Knows more than to censure a President ! 



160 The Coroners Jiuyrnan. 

Meanwhile, we must rein in our fury ; 

He thinks us but carpers and cavillers ; 
When the Roads have full leave, from the Jury, 

To play fatal Tricks upon Travellers. 

Thus 't will be, till some shrewd Superintendent 

Is placed, with avenging severity, 
On a sour apple-tree swinging pendent, 

To serve as a hint to posterity. 



THE DANGERS OF BROADWAY. 



BY A PROMENADER. 



\ T 7ITH a slam, and a smash, and a rattling 
* * crash, 

Come the sticks, 
And the bricks, 
Bits of glass, blind, and sash, 
That the laborers rash 
Tumble down, all the day, 
From the houses now being destroyed in Broadway. 
Strange odors and musty, 
The air sharp and dusty 
With lime and with sand, 
That no one can stand, 
Make the street quite impassable, 
The people irascible, 



1 62 The Dangers of Broadway. 

Till every one cries, 

As he trembling goes, 
With the sight of his eyes 
And the scent of his nose 
Quite stopped — or at least, much diminished, 
" Gracious ! when will this city be finished ! " 

ii. 
Mr. Smith builds a store — may be more — 
In the year '53. 
But, in '58, he 
Finds that, which he calls " the old ( ! ) building," 
a bore, 
A disgrace to the town — 
So of course it comes down, 
And another, much stronger, 
Goes up in its place, 
With a handsomer face, 
To last five years more, or perhaps a year longer. 
Meanwhile Mr. Brown 

Pulls down 
His building, near by, 



The Dangers of Broadway. 163 

And the dust that he makes 
Causes all sorts of aches ; 
For, like his " improvements," 't is all in one's eye ! 

in. 
But the dust's not the worst of this ruin accurst ; 
Tis the danger, 
Each stranger 
(And citizen too) is always put through, 
In walking amid such a hullabaloo. 

E'en a temperance man — 

Let him do all he can — 
Is likely to get (and be well off at that) 
An exceedingly heavy great brick in his hat. 

Powdered with mortar, 

Sprinkled with water, 

Smoked, soaked, 

Poked, choked, 

Turned into the street, 

By walks incomplete, 
Till the pleasures of Broadway are sadly diminished, 
And all say, " O gracious ! when will it be finished ? " 



THE FOURTH OF JULY IN TOWN. 

[Being the Lament of a Poet who couldn't get away. The 
reader will observe that each verse is concluded by an explosive 
refrain, from the firearms without] 

T REALLY don't know what to do 
-*■ ('T was thus a Poet sang) 
Amid this dreadful hubaboo 
That drives me crazy — 

{Bang !) 

I did not wish in town to stay ; 

It cost me quite a pang 
To find I could n't get away, 

But fate is cruel — 

{Bang !) 

The streets are filled with smoke and noise, 
And everywhere a gang 



The Fourth of yuly in Town. 165 

Of ruffian men and rowdy boys 
Are firing pistols — 

(Bang !) 

Ah! out of town the air is sweet, 

Where nodding roses hang 
Above the brook that laves their feet, 

But here 't is horrid — 

(Bang!) 

In every public place and hall 

The orators harangue, 
Amid a dun and dusky pall 

Of smoke and sulphur — 

(Bang !) 

Whatever patriots may say, 
With all their buncombe slang, 

In town, this Independence Day 
Is but a nuisance — 

(Bang !) 



1 66 The Fourth of yuly in Town. 

'T was well enough, when into birth 

Our Independence sprang; 
But this ! 't is Tophet here on earth — 

{Crack ! crash ! ! whang ! ! ! 
clang ! ! ! ! slam-bang! ! ! ! !) 



THE BROWN STONE WHAT-IS-IT. 

A CIVIC BALLAD, WITH A CHORUS ONTO IT. 

A SCULPTOR once lived here in New York 
-*■*- Whose various statues made some talk ; 
But he, so all the connoisseurs say, 
Was quite on the caricatural lay ; 
With his carica-tural, lural, lural, 

Caricatural lay. 

His name was T , a Scot was he 

Who hoped from critiques to go scot free ; 
And one great work from this sculptor's hands 
In a sweetly rural village stands, 
With its sweetly rural, lural, lural, 

Sweetly rural lay. 

One day, when his cash was almost gone, 
Said he, " I '11 sculpture Washington ! 



1 68 The Brown Stone Wkat-is-it. 

Immortal in brown-stone shall he be, 
With an architectural plinth, you see, 
An architectural, lural, lural, 

Architectural lay. 

He got the stone and he pecked away . . . 

I think it took him at least a day . . . 

Then he called some friends, whom he had found 

In the agricultural districts round ; 

With their agricul-tural, lural, lural, 

Agricultural lay. 

'T is hard to believe the tradition true ; 
But they said 't was fine, and he thought so, too ! 
'T was the sorriest figure, bald and bare, 
With a mournful and sepultural air ; 
A sepul-tural, lural, lural, 

Sepul-tural lay. 

The Artist was proud ... he held up his head . . 
" T is the flower of all my works ! " he said. 



The Brown Stone What-is-it. 169 

" The flower of all ! " . . . well pleased Was he 
With his horticultural simile ; 
His horticultural, lural, lural, 

Horticul-tural lay. 

Long in the Park the statue stood, 

And the general verdict was, " 'T ain't good ! " 

Though few knew what 't was meant to express, 

Save by a sort of conjectural guess ; 

A conjec-tural, lural, lural, 

Conjec-tural lay. 

But the City Fathers are lovers of Art, 
And with this statue they could not part ; 
They said in the Park it should remain 
Throughout their civic and mural reign, 
Their civic and mural, lural, lural, 

Civic and mural lay. 

So, for this brown-stone what-is-it to pay 
They gave two thousand dollars away, 



170 The Brown Stone What-is-it. 

And tax-payers groan, both near and far, 
" What expenditural fellows these are ! " 
Expendi-tural, lural, lural, 

Expendi-tural lay. 

So now the Thing belongs to the town . . . 

Or will, when the money has been paid down ; 

And passing the Park, we note, each day, 

T 's strength in the caricatural way ! 

In the carica-tural, lural, lural, 

Carica-tural lay. 



THE SHARPSHOOTER'S LOVE. 


[IN time of war.] 


'HPHE finest friend I ever knew, 
A And one with whom I dare not trifle ; 


Who in all danger sees me through, 


Whose aim is ever good and true, 


Is my sweet Minie Rifle. 


She gently rests upon my arm, 


Is always ready, always willing ; 


And though, in general, somewhat calm, 


Wakes up, upon the first alarm, 


To show she can be killing. 


And she is very fair to see, 


The most fastidious fancy suiting ; 


Her Locks are bright as they can be, 


And that her Sight is good, to me 


Is just as sure as shooting. 



172 The Sharpshooters Love. 

Though used to many a fiery spark, 

She 's never careless in her pleasure ; 
She always aims to hit the mark, 
And when her voice the Southrons hark, 
They find she 's no Secesher. 

The heaviest Load seems not to weigh 
Upon her more than 't were a trifle ; 
She 's highly polished : and I 'd pray, 
Were I bereft of friends this day, 
O, leave me Minie Rifle ! 



THE SONG OF THE STONE-HULK. 

[IN TIME OF WAR.] 

r I ^IME was I roved the Northern seas, 

-^ To chase the blubbering whale, 
But now I lie in dreamy ease 
To rest my poor old ribs and knees. 
A Cell, but not a Sail. 

A number of us calmly lie, — 

J. D. is not alone, — 
And barristers who southward hie 
Can comment, passing Charleston by, 

Upon the works of Stone. 

Though old, I still am stanch and stout ; 

A store of Rocks have I ; 
My comrades and myself, no doubt, 
With such a lot of bars about, 

Will ne'er get high and dry. 



174 The Song of the Stone-Hulk. 

The sharks, the porgies, and the whales 

Swim by with look intent, 
And ask if, when I bent my sails 
To lead the life this job entails, 

I followed out that bent. 

Though Davis, spite of shame and sin, 
Controls the South, 't is true, 

To Lincoln I my faith give in . . . 

As I a three-master have been 
Two masters will not do. 

When cannon against Sumter's wall 

Shall roar in. warlike sort, 
I '11 think, as howl the shot and ball 
From frigates trim and taut and tall, 

'T is their, but not my, forte. 

So here in Charleston Bay I He, 

A part of war's great game ; 
To pass me let no skipper try, 
For though he reck but little, I 
Shall wreck him all the same ! 



THE NEW NIMROD. 

[By McArone.] 

T N tangles deep of vine and thorn, 
-■- And over uplands rough and furzy, 
I took a dog and gun, one morn, 

And went to slay the game of Jersey. 

I borrowed Charly Bucklin's boots 
(He 's surely had a smaller size on), 

And said, u Here comes a man who shoots 
Whatever game he claps his eyes on ! 

" Ye quails, hide quick among the sheaves ; 

Ye partridges, leave off your drumming ; 
Ye rabbits, take your sudden leaves, — 

A mighty hunter now is coming ! " 



176 The New Nimrcd. 

Full many a mile I trudged, that day, 
Beset by thorn and spur and splinter ; 

One half the birds had flown away, 
The other half were killed last winter. 

Along the road a peasant came, 

And cried, in accents light and airy, 

" Ho ! sportsman, what 's your little game ? " 
I only said, with sorrow*, " Nary ! " 

The rain came down without a pause, 
The raging wind roared loud and louder, 

And all my consolation was : 

" I 've saved a deal of shot and powder ! " 

So now I '11 put all guns away, 
Save in defence of starry bunting, 

Remembering that unhappy day 

When I went down to Jersey, hunting. 

Yet 'tis not I who am to blame 
For having by misfortune gotten 



The New Nimrod. 177 

Into a place where was no game 

To shoot, be shooted, shot, or shotten. 

Ah, no ! 't was but that Destiny 

To me was always somewhat tricksy ; 

And when again you hear of me, 

'T will be, I hope, from down in Dixie. 



TWO SENSIBLE SERENADES. 



I SING beneath your lattice, Love, 
A song of great regard for you : 
The moon is getting rather high ; 
My voice is, too. 



The lakelet in deep shadow lies, 
Where frogs make much hullabaloo ; 
I think they sing a trifle hoarse, 
And, Love, me too. 



The blossoms on the pumpkin-vine 
Are weeping diamond tears of dew ; 
'T is warm : the flowers are wilting fast ; 
My linen too. 



Two Sensible Serenades, 179 

All motionless the cedars stand, 

With silent moonbeams slanting through ; 

The very air is drowsy, Love, 

And I am too. 

* 

O, could I soar on loving wings, 
And at your window gently woo ! 
But then your lattice you would bolt — 
So I '11 bolt too. 

And now I Ve done my serenade, 
Farewell ! my best regards to you ; 
I '11 close with one (French) word for all, 
And that is tout. 



II. 

The surf upon the distant shore is breaking ; 

Bright tears of dew the roses seem to weep ; 
But you are prejudiced against awaking, 

So I '11 sing small, and let you have your sleep ! 
Sleep, lady, sleep ! 



180 Two Sensible Serenades. 

You shall not chide me for this song, love, shall 
you ? 
I take great pains my voice subdued to keep, 
For well I understand the lofty value 

All sane folks set upon a wholesome sleep. 
Sleep, lady, sleep ! 

Some fellows — at their nonsense oft I wonder — 
Sing out with voices strong and loud and deep, 

Until their loved ones wish they 'd go to thunder, 
Or, like myself, sing small, and let them sleep. 
Sleep, lady, sleep \ 

The grass is wet ; I find that I am sneezing ; 

This kind of thing is getting rather " steep " ; 
The thought of rheumatism is n't pleasing, 

So, with your leave, I '11 home to bed and sleep. 
Sleep, lady, sleep ! 



"NO MORE." 

HE Summer Season 's over ; 
No more I haunt the Springs or Shores ; 
No more I lie in clover, 

And suffer myriad rural bores. 



T 



I feel no headache warning 

Of sunstroke, 'neath the skies of fire ; 
I dance no more, till morning, 

With mortal maids who must perspire. 

No more I haunt the stables, 

To learn how racing matters go ; 

No more I sleep on tables, 

Because " the house is crowded so." 

No more the milk and honey 

Of watering-place cuisines are mine ; 



1 82 "No Mover 

But I, for much less money, 

Can much more comfortably dine. 

No more the famous waters 

Disgust my taste and make me ill ; 

No marriageable daughters 

Are now thrust at me, will or nill. 

Sweet blondes, and brunettes haughty, 

No more with dressed up tradesmen flirt ; 

No more their nags (2.40) 

Dash by, and cover me with dirt. 

The dread mosquito, singing, 

No more torments me with his ways ; 

Nor, sharper tortures bringing, 
The still more terrible punaise. 

The sea its rocks is scathing, 

As heretofore ; but beauty bright 

No more goes in a-bathing, 

In togs that render her a fright ! 



"No Mover 183 

I see no white sails dotting 

Old ocean's bosom, blue and broad : 

I go no more a-yachting, 

And lose my dinner — overboard. 

Bluffed, badgered, bored, and bandied, 
No more am I : I 'm home at last ; 

And own up — to be candid — 
I 'm very glad the season 's past. 



OPENING DAY 

(AFTER TENNYSON.) 



T 



*HE splendor falls 
On cloaks and shawls, 
And showy goods in every story ; 
The gas-light shakes 
Its lurid flakes, 
And the Counter-jumper's in his glory! 
Blow, merchants, blow ! set the big stories fly- 
ing ; 
Blow, merchants ! answer salesmen, — lying, — 
lying, — lying. 

O bah ! O dear ! 
What talk I hear, 
And thinner, weaker, feebler growing : 
These fellows are 
Too bad by far, 



O pelting Day. 185 

The horns of their employers blowing : 
Blow, merchants, blow ! set the big stories fly- 
ing ; 
Blow, merchants, answer salesmen, — lying, — 
lying, — lying. 

Ah, would they try 
To live — or die — 
By manly toil, despairing never ! 
But no, each soul 
Plays woman's role, 
And tape and yardstick rule forever ! 
Go, merchants, go ; send these young spoonies 

flying ; 
And you, O salesmen ! stop your lying, — lying, 
— lying. 



THE COMMON COUNCILMAN. 

v 1 ^ WAS an illegant Common Councilman, 

-*• His nose it was red an' his eyes was 
sunken. 
As grocery-clerk his life began, 

Till he had to " resign " for bein' dhrunken ; 
'T was then he was thick widh the market 
boys, 

An' many an evenin' he got a singein, 
Or helped to make confusion an' noise, 

At work on a blazin' roof, or an ingin'. 

He managed the votes of his pet masheen, 
An' swep' his ward like a reg'lar hurricane ; 

An' whin he was spacheless widh bog-poteen, 
He thanked the Lord he was no American ! 

So they 'lected him, aisy enough ; 

He couldn't be Prisident — more 's the pity — 



The Common Councilman. 187 

On account of the " Native American" stuff; 
But they giv' him a fat berth undher the city. 

His hair was red and his brogue was nate, 
An' whin he 'rranged the affairs o' the na- 
tion, 
His vote was always appropriate, 
. For he voted for ivery appropriation : 
Of blarney he had enough an' to shpare ; 

His spache was wondherful fine an flowery ; 
He was mighty fluent upon the swear, 

An' he kep' a " sample-room " in the Bowery. 

Soon he came to belong to "the Ring," 

An' got mighty rich widh his jobs an' leases, 
Had horses an' wagins an' iverything, 

An' chucked his money around like Croesis. 
Ivery mornin' he rode in his shay, 

And went to Delmonico's for a luncheon ; 
1 An' he drownded the shamrock St. Patrick's 

day 
In a punch that fairly filled a puncheon. 



1 88 The Common Councilman. 

All the relations he iver knew, 

To his wife's fourth cousin and great-aunt's 
brother, 
Got a place undher the City too — 

Ivery wan had some pickins or other; 
An' so he lived, respicted by all, 

Who, through him, could touch the City's 
rhino ; 
Whin he died, 'twas an illegant funeral, 

An' he went — O, bother ! it 's more than I 
know. 



DOUGLAS'S SERENADE. 

Air, — Molly Bawn. 

S~\ POLLY TIX, why leave me pining, 
^-^ All lonely waiting here for you ? 
The Stars and Stripes are brightly shining, 
And pray why should n't I shine too ? 
O Polly Tix ! O Polly Tix ! 

The Black Republicans are snarling ; 

They take me for a thief, you see ; 
They know I 'd steal a march, my darling, 

Unless defeated I should be. 

O Polly Tix ! O Polly Tix ! 

My little nose doth brightly bloom, dear ; 
My little eyes do brightly shine ; 



190 Douglass Serenade. 

The White House must be some one's home, 
dear, 
And may be it was made for mine. 
O Polly Tix ! O Polly Tix ! 

February, i860. 



THE CONSERVATIVE'S LAMENT 

(AFTER TENNYSON.) 

T HATE the dreadful nigger, within the pile 

-*- of wood ; 

His name is the demagogue's weapon, dabbled 
with blood in its sheath ; 

At Harper's Ferry still lingers a silent horror 
of blood, 
And Echo there, whatever is asked her, an- 
swers "death." 

For there is a ghastly grin on political faces 
found ; 
The nigger is all their life — they know how to 

manage him well — 
Dandled and flattered first, then crushed on po- 
litical ground — 
This is the rock on which the Whig Party 
split and fell. 



192 The Conservative s Lament. 

Have we flung ourselves down ? If so, the 
greatest of nations has failed ; 
Our honest men mutter and madden, our states- 
men are wan with despair ; 
When the nigger has walked through the land, 
the working classes have wailed, 
And the flying gold of the ruined merchants 
gleamed on the air. 

I remember the time when my bitterest bile 
was stirred 
By the Herald's gas, and the dead-weight Times, 

and the Tribune s fright, 
When its white-coat editor said, in every col- 
umn, he heard 
The shrill-edged shriek of Kansas divide the 
shuddering night. 

Villany somewhere ? whose ? I think they are 
villains all ; 
Not one politician his honest fame has main- 
tained ; 



The Conservative s Lament, 193 

And that old man, now lord of the White House 
reception-hall, 
Will soon drop off from his term, and leave 
us flaccid and drained. 

Why do we prate of our government's power ? 
we have made it a curse — . 
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for gold that 
is not its own ; 
And the lust of gain, or the senator s cane, are 
they better or worse 
Than the scalping done by the savage, in war, 
with a sharpened stone ? 

But these are the days of advance, the works 
of the men of mind, 
When who but a fool would have faith in a 
politician's word ? 
Is it peace or war ? . . . civil war, as I think ; 
and that of a kind 
The viler as being political — abuse instead 
of the sword. 
13 



194 The Conservatives Lament. 

Sooner or later I too may passively take the hint 
Of the golden bribe — why not ? I have nei- 
ther hope nor trust ; 
May make myself eligible, set my face as a flint, 
Cheat, be elected, and steal : who knows ? we 
are ashes and dust. 

March, i860. 



QUEER WEATHER. 

r I ^HE summer is hot and the summer is dry, 

-*- The water is low in the stagnant pool ; 
There 's a parching earth and a cloudless sky, 

And even the cucumbers can't keep cool : 
Still worse — while the summer astonishes all, 
I fear there '11 be very queer weather this fall. 

In Dixie the thunder is fearfully loud, 

The lightning is common, too, yonder, they say, 

And e'en in the North is a gathering cloud 
That may do us harm before clearing away : 

It won't come amiss, then, to look for a squall, 

And prepare for some very queer weather this fall. 

'Tis odd that while drouth scorches forest and plain, 

And the land is as dry as an empty cup, 
Poor Washington 's troubled with too much reign, 



196 Queer Weather. 

And the people are praying the Pumps may 

dry up : 
For change in the programme they earnestly call, 
And I think they '11 have very queer weather 

this fall. 

There 's a sprout in that city — a flourishing 
weed — 

That grows upon ruins and blooms on despair ; 
It sucks up the richness that other plants need, 

And takes to itself all the sunshine and air ; 
At present 'tis lusty and thrifty and tall, 
But I think 't will have very queer weather this fall. 

Well, let us hope on, though the heavens may 
frown ; 

Such weather can hardly last always, you know ; 
The day must come, even to Washington town, 

When the ruin-born blossoms no longer can blow ; 
And sunshine shall follow, in cottage and hall, 
The very queer weather that 's coming this fall ! 



FACILIS DECENSUS AVENUE. 



[" We see that one of our fashionable tailors has broken ground in Fifth 
Avenue, and converted one of the fine mansions therein into a magazine of gar- 
ments. In a short time we may expect to see most of the magnificent private 
residences in this avenue converted into retail stores and shops." — Daily 
Newsfa 



I. 

A CCORDING to popular talk, 
■**- The palatial street of New York 
Is falling from grace 
At a terrible pace. 
I hear, when I promenade there, 
Strange voices of grief in the air ; 
And I fancy I see 
The sad sisters three, 
With their black trailing dresses 
And dishevelled tresses, 

Go, solemn and slow, 
To and fro, 
In their woe, 



}8 Facilis Decensus Avenue. 

Sighing, 

And crying 
" Eheu ! Eheu ! Eheu ! 
There 's a Tailor in Fifth Avenue ! " 

ii. 
O, sorry and sad was the day 
When this Tailor came up from Broadway, 
With his stitches, 
And breeches, 
His shears and his goose, 
And his fashions profuse, 
To the house that has been, 
In years I have seen, 
Most aristocratic 
From basement to attic ! 
But gone are the flush and the fair, 
And those voices still float in the air, 
Sighing, 
And crying 
"Eheu! Eheu! Eheu! 
There 's a Tailor in Fifth Avenue." 



Facilis Decensus Avenue. 199 

in. 
Where sweet Crinolina once slept, 
The sempstresses, may be, are kept ; 
And, perhaps, in her dressing-room, where 
Her maid combed that glistening hair, 
Some cross-legged fellow, 
Round-shouldered and yellow, 
May sit, with his needle and thread ; 
For the glory that reigned there has fled ! 
How oft to that door she ascended 
When the ball or the party was ended, 
Flushed, beautiful, bright, 
A queen of delight, 
An angel quite worthy of heaven ! 
To that door now a tailor's cart 's driven. 
No wonder that voice cries — " Eheu ! 
There 's a Tailor in Fifth Avenue ! " 

IV. 

Then where shall the flush and the fair 
Find refuge ? Ah, Echo says " Where ? " 
There are dentists in Madison Square ; 



200 Facilis Decensus Avenue, 

The boarding-house, too, appears there ; 
And I Ve heard, 
In a word, 
That some kind of factory, or mill, 
Is soon to disturb Murray Hill ! 
Now, if fashion must be 
(And it seems so to me) 
Crowded upward, each year, 
I very much fear 
They '11 be shoved — and the thought makes 

me shiver — 
Off the island and into the river ; 
Sighing, 
And crying 
"Eheu! Eheu! Eheu ! 
There's a Tailor in Fifth Avenue." 



THE SONG OF THE HOME GUARD. 

" I only ask for Peace ; my god is Ease." — Aldrich. 

I ET dogs delight to bark and bite," 
-**— ' I have no taste for war ; 
My joy is not in fire and fight, 
In cannon's roar and bullet's flight, 
And nasty pools of gore. 

no, I hold 'tis very wrong 
My fellow-man to slay ; 

But when I see the martial throng 
Go clattering by, ten thousand strong, 
I 'm carried quite away. 

1 love the drums' and trumpets' crash, 
The uniforms and things : 

The sunlit sabre's glittering flash 



202 The Song of the Home Guard. 

(When all unused to human hash !) 
To me a pleasure brings. 

So much I love the pomp and show 

That warlike men display, 
I once had half a mind to go 
Where swords must strike and blood must flow, 

And some must run away. 

But well I knew their lot is hard 

Who through the South do roam ; 
And rather than be maimed or scarred 
I Ve joined the glorious, gallant Guard, 
Who vow to stay at Home. 

So down Broadway I proudly ride, 
Through heat and dust and noise ; 

My dress-sword jingles at my side, 

And I am puffed by martial pride, 
And chaffed by vulgar boys. 

Let others fight, let others fall, 
Let others wear the bays ; 



The Song of the Home Guard. 203 

But at the military ball 
Let me adorn the festive hall, 
Where gimp and buttons blaze. 

Then fill your glasses full and free, 
And drink the health that's right, — 

To him that joins my company 

And only wants, like me, to be 
A Broadway carpet-knight. 

'Tis ours to keep well fed and warm; 

We scorn all poor . supplies ; 
We fear no bloody battle's storm, 
We wear a nice new uniform 

And tend our shops likewise. 

So now, brave boys, I move that when 

The war has drained our land 
Of good and valiant fighting men, 
Should we be called, I move that then 
We instantly disband. 



A VOICE FROM ON DECK. 

[jack tar speaks.] 

/^* OOD Mister Welles, my mind is set, 
^-^ And I must say my say or die : 

I never minded getting wet ; 
Why should you 'keep me dry? 

On sprees I never used to go ; 

I took my ration — quantum stiff — 
But then I am a Salt, you know, 

And salt is thirsty stuff. 

When nausea would not let me sup, — 
When winds did blow and skies did frown, • 

Grog often kept my spirits up, 
And kept my victuals down. 

Each Salt that roves the briny wave 
Will tell you I have truly sung ; 



A Voice from on Deck, 205 

And what you at the spigot save 
Will leak out at the bung. 

Since you Ve pronounced the fatal word, 
Our fun goes never quite so far: 

And pray, what could be more absurd — 
A sober jolly Tar ? 

I used to sing a merry stave, 

However loud the tempest roared ; 

But now my energies I save, — 
There 's not a stave on board. 

Without my grog I feel afraid 

To venture where I've little room; 

Yet 'tis a portion of my trade 
To go upon a boom. 

Now, Mister Welles, I '11 say good by, 
With hopes that, in a little while, 

We water-dogs may not be dry, — 
We jolly Tars may smile ! 



X 



THE PLAINT OF THE POSTAGE-STAMP. 

T 'M a very dirty little Stamp ; 
-*- My back is gummed, my face is dimly blurred ; 
And yet I am, in commerce, cot, and camp, 

Familiar as the well-known household word. 
Yet O, to think that I should ever be 
Converted into legal currency! 

Now on an envelope I 'm not so bad, 

And I take letters through both cheap and 
neat ; 

Sticking to one thing was a way I had, 
But now I stick to everything I meet : 

And O, to think that I could ever be 

Passed in the place of metal currency ! 

To do my duty I did ne'er refuse ; 

But woe is me ! for I have fallen low ; 



The Plaint of the Postage- Stamp. 207 

I'm passed for vulgar drinks and oyster-stews, 

And dirty shaves, — 'tis that that sticks me so! 
Alas! alas! that I should ever be 
A victim to the dearth of currency ! 

Thumbing and gumming have quite worn me out ; 

I 'm drab and dingy now, instead of red ; 
My back is weak, and soon, without a doubt, 

If I am passed much more I '11 lose my head. 
O sorry day ! when I did chance to be 
Put to the use of baser currency ! 
1862. 



THE WAR-POET'S LAMENT. 

\li 7 HEN lovers and sweethearts and house- 
^ * holds were sundered, 
And lurid clouds darkened the bright south- 
ern sky, 
When cannon and mortar and musketry thun- 
dered, 
And tyrants in foreign lands trembled and won- 
dered, 
How happy and busy a poet was I ! 



I sought no laborious plots and devices ; 

Battle-rhymes almost unconsciously come ; 
You can chop 'em off neatly, to order, in 

slices, 
Charging — and getting — most fabulous prices, 

If lavish of "death-dealing cannon " and "drum." 



. The War-Poet's Lament. 209 

O, how I revelled in visions of battle : — 

" Blood," and " destruction," and " victory's 
shout," 
" Piled heaps of slain," and the " horrid death- 
rattle " ! . . . 
Now I must poetize small-talk and tattle ; 
Peace has come in, and my trade has gone 
out! 

What shall I sing, whose sole stock has been 
Glory ? 

How shall I turn from the worship of Mars ? 
How leave a field so productive and gory ? 
Changing to tranquil and pastoral story ? 

How shall I pay for my wine and cigars ? 



Such a denouement I hardly expected, 

Till the sad morn when I rose from my bed, 
Saw the white temple that Peace had erected, 
Found my last war-song politely rejected, 
Myself in despair, and with never a red ! 
H 



210 The War-Poet's Lament. 

Ah, it is mournful ! our soldiers and sailors 
Furnish no longer a theme for my pen : 
What foes we have left we confide to our jailers, 
And — gad ! I '11 write rhymes for the popular 
tailors, 
And sing of brave garments instead of brave 
men ! 



A 



SHODDY. 

r I ^ERRIBLE times of sorrow and need ; 

•*• Times to make hearts of adamant bleed ; 
Times that seem to have been decreed 

To chasten our wayward nation : 
Fathers and brothers thinning away, 
Bread growing scarcer every day, 
Famine to pinch and sword to slay — 

'T is a woful situation ! 

But, even as Nero, in days of old, 
Unmoved, heard Roman fire-bells tolled, 
And saw the machines that rattled and rolled 

To the scene of the great disaster, 
The while he rosined his fiddle-bow, 
And played some classic " Rob Ridley, O ! " 
So we make merry, while all things go 

To the dickens, faster, and faster ! 



212 Shoddy. 

Parties, sociables, visits and calls, 

Operas, hops, and Russian balls, 

'Mid broken pillars and tottering walls, 

Enough to bewilder a body ; 
Silver and gold, and gems of the mine, 
Satin to rustle and silk to shine, 
Feathers and fuss and frippery fine — 

The paraphernalia of Shoddy. 

Carriages flash through the crowded street, 
Flunkeys in livery stiff on each seat, 
Buttoned and caped from head to feet — 

Most solemn, majestical flunkeys ; 
And " tigers," to let down the steps with a bow — 
Learned, only tigers and Heaven know how ! 
Dressed up in a fashion I must allow 

Like that of the organ monkeys. 

The ladies, who walk when the weather is fair, 
Show marvellous tastes, with a marvellous air. 
Nothing can be too splendid to wear ; 
Too gaudy, too fine, or too funny ; 



Shoddy. 213 

For credit is good, if prices are high, 
And a government nod, or wink of the eye, 
Can pile up " greenbacks " clear to the sky, — 
" Greenbacks " being Shoddy for money. 

So yellows, and blues, and scarlets, gay 
Go sweeping the pavements every day, 
Making a rainbow of poor Broadway, 

With a glare that is really stunning ; 
And even the churches where fashion goes 
Are a mass of follies and furbelows, 
Flirtation and foolery under the rose, 

Past even the serpent's cunning. 

While Shoddy over its turtle gloats, 

Our soldiers shiver in rotten coats, 

And our tars go down in their leaky boats, 

The victims of contract building ; 
And poverty stages in its wretched slums, 
Or freezes to death when the north wind comes, 
While Shoddy is picking the sweetest plums 

From its bed of gingerbread gilding. 



214 Shoddy. 

But what cares Shoddy for all these things ? 
Shoddy, the richest of paper kings : 
Shoddy, who dances, fiddles, and sings 

On the crater of wild inflation ? 
What does he care ? Not a sou-markee ! 
He fattens and battens in luxury, 
As if his reign were a thing to be 

Of eternal perpetuation. 

But Damocles' sword hangs overhead : 

Justice may sleep, but she is not dead ; 

" Vengeance is mine ! " the Lord hath said ; 

And soon, at the end of the story, 
Fruitiest wine shall be bitterest gall ; 
Silk and satin make shroud and pall ; 
Truth shall rise and Shoddy shall fall, — 

To the nation's lasting glory ! 

1864. 

719 ■** 



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